Unforeseen
by cottonmouth
Summary: A week after ‘Cracks In The Glass’, Sam and Dean are on their way to Missouri’s to try and find help with Sam’s growing psychic abilities. But the yellow-eyed demon is still a threat, and both boys are finding themselves increasingly alone. FMFC ‘verse,
1. Chapter 1

Summary – A week after 'Cracks In The Glass', Sam and Dean are on their way to Missouri's to try and find help with Sam's growing psychic abilities. But the yellow-eyed demon is still a threat, and both boys are finding themselves increasingly alone. FMFC 'verse, SamDean slash

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense :)

WARNINGS, PLEASE READ – Obviously if you guys have read FMFC and CitG and the various one-shots that go along with them you'll know all about the mentioned child abuse and violence, but this story is probably going to end up going a lot darker. There will be issues of non-consensual sex in a later chapter involving one of the main characters, and although it won't be full-on rape, I understand some people might still have a problem with the subject matter. I know a few of you might feel I'm spoiling part of the story by warning for this now, but I'd like to cover my bases early and save anyone beginning this story only to find they can't finish it due to the subject…

I'd like to thank the brilliant and wonderful Phx, who not only betaed this and came up with the title, but also encourages me and puts up with my confused ramblings about where I want the story to go :P This story probably wouldn't have been started if it weren't for her, and it definitely wouldn't have been half as good :)

I'll be updating this story weekly, so expect the next chapter on Thursday/Friday of next week :) Anyway, after almost a full page of warnings etc, I hope you guys will enjoy the story!

Chapter 1

In the town of Lawrence, Kansas, a few streets over from the house Mary Winchester had died in so many years ago, Missouri Moseley sat at her kitchen table. There was a pile of dirty dishes waiting in the sink, hot water running freely from the tap and sending up billows of steam. An untouched cup of chamomile tea turned cold on the countertop, the sugar pot beside it, teaspoon sticking out of the top while the shiny metal lid slowly rolled in circles on the tiled floor, abandoned. Night had fallen hours ago and the chill air whispered through an open window. The wind chimes on the porch outside clacked together like death rattles.

Missouri didn't seem to notice her surroundings at all. Her hands were limp on the table in front of her, palm-up, and her gaze was fixed on her fingertips. She'd been getting ready for bed, her hair hanging loose, those strands of grey she'd been pretending not to notice for the past few weeks curling over her forehead. Her nightgown covered her to her wrists, high around the neck and hanging over her bare feet. Even in warm weather she always preferred to feel covered in bed.

A cup slipped somewhere in the mountain of dirty china in the sink. The carefully stacked plates shifted like loose rocks on a cliff-face, settling uneasily against the side of the basin. The stream of water running from the hot tap pounded dried pieces of pasta and burnt lumps of meat from the bottom of a glass casserole dish. They spattered over the side of the sink and landed in miniature puddles on the tiled floor.

It was ignored.

Dean Winchester and his boy were driving through the night in that big black shark of a car. They'd arrive mid-morning. Rain would start falling as the engine was turned off and the heavens would open as they ran for the porch.

Missouri stood, stepping in the damp mush on the floor as she turned the tap off. Preparations had to be made.

* * *

Dean Winchester shifted in the driver's seat of the Impala, flexing first one thigh muscle then the other. His ass had gone numb about two miles back and his hands were cramping around the wheel.

He'd been driving since noon, stopping off to take a whiz by the side of the road and eating ding-dongs and beef jerky to keep his energy up. The sugar rush made his knee twitch and his foot bounce on the gas pedal, little spurts that made the car jump forward in response. Although Sam insisted there wasn't any great rush to get to Lawrence, Dean disagreed, vehemently. Only a week ago the kid had been _haemorrhaging _from the _brain_. Best to get that sorted as fast as possible, in Dean's opinion.

Sam was currently asleep, his head cushioned by Dean's leather jacket and resting on the knee that wasn't doing a Mexican tango with the gas pedal. Somehow the kid managed to curl himself into a ball, his long legs wedged between the passenger door and the seat. One hand was hanging off the seat, loosely tangled in the cuff of Dean's jeans.

The horizon ahead of them was still rosy with colour; they'd been chasing the sunset for hours. The border crossing into Kansas rolled into sight and out of it again just as quickly. It was insignificant, a tiny white road sign, but it made the breath catch in Dean's throat all the same. Kansas. They weren't just driving through this time, they were _going _there. To Lawrence, the very place his mother had been killed. He'd told Sam it was fine, that it didn't bother him, but there was an itch under his skin that had grown stronger and stronger, a nagging fear he'd thought he banished for good when he walked out on his father for college.

Sam made a tiny snuffling noise in his sleep, rubbing his nose against the leg of Dean's jeans. Dean let out a slow breath. He was going to do this, for _Sam_. His mother was dead and gone, but Sam was here and he needed Dean to be okay.

His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket, buried somewhere under Sam. Before he could dig it out Sam grunted and jerked into a sitting position, his hair sticking up on one side.

"Huh?" He blinked at Dean, his eyes blown with sleep.

"It's my phone. Can you…"

"Oh. Yeah." Sam untangled the jacket, fumbling with the cell phone until his clumsy fingers cooperated enough to answer it. "Hello?"

Dean glanced over. Sam was biting on his lower lip.

"Hi. Yeah, we're on our way. Is Missouri expecting us?" His dad then.

John had taken to calling him every few days for updates on where they were. Dean flushed as he remembered the conversation they'd had a few nights ago while Sam was showering. John had hummed and hawed for a few minutes, then gruffly told him to be good to Sam, hanging up before Dean could give a response. Dean spent several moments blinking at the dead phone in his hand before he'd realised what his dad had been trying to say in his own _we-are-men-who-don't-talk-about-our-feelings_ way.

It wasn't like he'd been _trying _to keep his relationship with Sam secret from his dad, but he hadn't exactly been advertising it either. Apparently his dad was more perceptive than he let on. He wasn't sure how he felt about John's endorsement, or about the fact his dad thought it was necessary to warn him against hurting Sam, but he supposed it was better than a homophobic rant and threats of disownment, which he'd kind of been expecting. Not that his dad had ever shown any signs of being a homophobe, but then he'd never exactly waved a flag in the pride parade either.

"Yeah. We'll let you know when we get there. Thanks." Sam hung up the phone.

"What'd dad want?" Dean asked.

"Just to make sure we're actually _going _to Missouri's this time. She's expecting us, apparently."

Without taking his eyes off the road Dean reached over and tapped Sam on the back of the head. "You were the one who wanted to stop and take a job. Next time I'm tellin' him it's all your fault, let you get yelled at."

"Oh c'mon, he didn't yell at you." Sam said, grinning.

"He called me a pushover!"

"Well s'not like he was lying. You _did _stop when I asked you to, after all."

"Shut up." Dean said, glancing at Sam's self-satisfied smirk and turning back to the road before he could say anything stupid, like _of course I'm a pushover for you, you idiot_.

Sam rolled his head from side to side, letting out an _ahh _at the crack. The kid had a nasty habit of popping his joints when he woke up. It was possibly the only thing Sam did that he really couldn't stand, Dean mused quietly. The worst was his trick knee; the sharp snap it made had Dean gritting his teeth every morning. Sam once mentioned wrenching it as a kid, badly enough that even Jim Miller had seen fit to take the boy to a hospital. Dean had never asked how it had happened.

"So, we nearly there yet?" Sam asked, using the back of the leather bench seat to rub his cheek against, like a cat.

"Not yet. Still got a couple hours to go."

"We can stop at a motel, Dean, it's not gonna kill us."

_Not me anyway_, Dean thought as he bit the inside of his mouth sharply. He kept it to himself. "I'd rather get this over with, if it's all the same to you. Psychics piss me off. Uh, except for you." He winced, glancing over. Sam didn't seem to catch the slip though. His face was screwed up in a wide yawn, the tip of his tongue curling behind his teeth. Dean watched, fascinated.

"Well she's gonna be pissed off with _us _if we turn up at three in the morning." Sam said with a soft grin. "We might as well get some sleep and arrive at a reasonable hour."

"Hey, the woman's a psychic, she'll know we're coming."

"Dean." Sam pinched the soft skin of his upper arm, his voice uncomfortably close to a whine. Dean tugged his arm away, taking a hand off the wheel to rub at the sore spot. Kid had a _grip_. "I wanna stop. I'm _tired_."

"You were just sleeping!"

"In the _car_. The car doesn't count as sleep. And don't be such a baby, I hardly touched you." Sam poked him in the same place as his pinch, a half-smile on his lips so Dean would know he wasn't being serious. "Look, there's a motel coming up on the next exit."

He glanced sidelong at the kid. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to stop for a few hours. "_Fine_." He rolled his eyes dramatically and flipped the turn signal on. "Don't say I never do anything for you."

* * *

Dean was out like a light as soon as his head hit the pillow. He was lying on his belly, his booted feet hanging off the end of the bed and his face smushed by the covers he hadn't bothered to pull back. Sam smothered a grin as the older man started snoring, deep and nasal. No doubt there would be drool before the night was out.

Despite what he'd told Dean Sam had slept pretty well in the car, even if the muscles of his back felt like they'd been strung up in knots. He'd gotten used to it, he supposed. The gentle thrum of the engine was like fingers massaging his temples and the squeak of leather as Dean shifted positions made him think of home, the only one he'd ever had. Knowing Dean would have driven all night, for _him_, made him feel warm inside.

The motel's heating clinked ominously before giving out altogether. Sam winced and took the sheets from the other bed, laying them over Dean's prone body, carefully taking off the older man's boots while he was there.

He sat back in an armchair that smelled of wet dog, sighing heavily. Missouri was expecting them tomorrow. Maybe the insistence that they stop for the night hadn't been entirely out of consideration for Dean.

Although his eyes were almost fully healed now, the sunglasses no longer a necessity if he wanted to go out in daylight, he could still feel _it_. A _thing_, sneaking around at the back of his mind, half-unnoticed. There were minutes, hours, when he'd forget all about what he could do, caught up in Dean's smile while they waited for food in a diner or paid for gas. And then it would shift behind his eyes, a subtle reminder. It wasn't painful or uncomfortable, and maybe that was the worst part. It was _in him_ and it didn't feel like it wasn't supposed to be there.

Missouri would know what to do. John said this woman could help him. Sam wasn't sure if it was fear or anticipation he felt when he thought of what she might tell him.

"Sammy?" Sam blinked, looking up at the bed. Dean had rolled onto his back and propped himself up on his elbows, staring at him with half-lidded eyes. "You gonna sit there and worry yourself to death or come and join me here?"

A smile pulled at his lips as he answered. "Yeah, I'm coming."

Dean grinned back, lazy and sleepy. He flopped back down on the bed, closing his eyes and holding a hand out in Sam's direction. Sam took it and let himself be hauled down, prodded and poked at until he was on his side facing the wall, Dean's body hot against his back.

" 'S'gonna be okay, kiddo." Dean mumbled, his lips brushing against the back of Sam's neck. "I gotcha."

"Yeah." Sam said quietly, staring at the wall inches from his face. Dean's reply was a drawn-out snore.

* * *

It started to rain as they pulled up outside the house. Dean glanced at the scrap of paper John had scrawled Missouri's address on a week ago in a dull parking lot in New Hampshire.

"This is it, kiddo. You ready?"

Sam swallowed, catching Dean's eyes briefly. Was he ready? Would he _ever _be ready for what this woman, this stranger, might have to tell him? "Sure. Let's go."

Dean smiled at him like he could see through the mask. He reached over and put a hand on Sam's arm, squeezing gently. "It's gonna be fine, Sam."

"I know." He tried to smile back. "Don't worry, I'm okay."

They stepped out of the car, Dean waiting for him on the sidewalk with the same smile on his lips, like he thought he had to keep Sam in his sight or he might lose him.

The house itself matched all the others on the street, painted a soothing pastel shade with a tiny front yard and a picket fence surrounding it. Terracotta flower pots lined the porch, overflowing with pansies and violets. The wind chimes hanging beside the front door seemed to announce their arrival, clattering together violently as they walked toward the house. It started to pour down as Dean held the little gate open for Sam, and by unspoken agreement they both sprinted for the cover of the house.

Dean opened the screen door and knocked, shaking his head so water sprayed off his hair like a dog. "Christ, I thought it was supposed to be _warm _in the middle states?"

Sam _hmmmed _in response, feeling the rain dripping down the back of his neck like slugs leaving trails on his skin. He shivered, scrubbing over the sensation with the cuff of his shirt.

The door opened suddenly, startling them both.

"Well, you boys took your sweet time, didn't you?" A short black woman stood on the other side, her hands on her hips and a frown on her face that was at odds with the bright floral blouse she wore. Sam blinked. _This _was Missouri, the great psychic?

She levelled a sharp glare at him suddenly, and he caught himself before he could stumble backwards off the porch. "You don't look like much yourself, Sam Miller. But you don't hear me makin' judgements, do you?"

He blushed hotly. He could feel Dean's inquisitive eyes on him but he kept his own firmly on the ground. "Sorry, ma'am."

"And don't _ma'am _me, boy, I'm not old yet. Now get your behinds in here before you catch your deaths of cold." She turned, leaving them to follow meekly behind.

Dean nudged at his arm, eyes wide. "What did you do?"

Sam shrugged, the blush still warming his cheeks.

"And take those muddy boots off by the door!" Missouri's voice came from somewhere within the house, making them both jump again.

It felt faintly ridiculous to be padding around in socks, especially considering both of Sam's had holes at the heels and Dean's big toe was poking through the weave of his left sock. They exchanged vaguely terrified looks, Dean making sure to stack his boots neatly on the mat by the door, which was something Sam would have found hilarious at any other time, and followed in the direction Missouri had gone.

Sam found himself in a cosy-looking kitchen, beaded curtain at the door and a deep warm pink paint on the walls. There were vases of flowers dotted at the windows and on the surfaces, brightly coloured and clashing cheerfully with one another. The scent of baking filled the air, and he could practically _see _Dean's saliva glands go into overdrive.

Missouri stood at the far counter, her hands busy adding sugar to mugs with steam rising from them. She turned and nodded curtly at the table, and Sam almost threw himself at it in his haste. Dean did the same, and after a brief tussle over the nearest chair, they were both seated in what had to be some kind of record time.

A mug of hot tea was placed in front of him, and one in front of Dean. The older man's lip curled – tea was a _girly drink_ according to Dean – but at a _tskk _from Missouri it was gone so fast Sam had to bite back a smile.

"Now, you boys get that inside you, and then we'll see about some lunch. I'm baking fresh bread, and I've got some leftover casserole in the refrigerator I can heat up, as long as neither of you boys are vegetarians?"

"No, ma'am." Dean said quickly, his back so straight in his chair Sam could have used him as a vertical gage.

"Good." Missouri nodded, pulling a tupperware container out of the refrigerator. "Now, Dean, why don't you go get the bags out of the car and take 'em on up while you're waiting for your tea to cool down? You'll be in the first room at the top of the stairs, Sam'll be in the room beside you. And don't give me any arguments about sharing a room," Missouri said, holding a hand up as Dean's mouth opened. "I'm well aware of you boys and your relationship," at that Dean's face turned startlingly red, "and while I respect that, I'll also ask that you respect the rules of my house, one of which is no funny business. My room's at the end of the hall, the bathroom's on the left. Make sure you wash your hands before dinner, I've seen where they've been."

Dean gaped a little after Missouri finished talking, his mouth working wordlessly. She raised her eyebrows at him and he leapt out of the chair like it bit him, vanishing through the kitchen doorway.

Sam ducked his head, hiding his grin.

It disappeared altogether when Missouri seated herself in Dean's vacated chair, taking hold of one of his hands with surprising reverence. He looked up at her, afraid of what he might see.

There was no fear or sadness in her face. Instead she nodded, a small smile on her lips. "Oh, child. You have so much to learn."

"Am…am I-" Sam stuttered. He blinked, suddenly close to tears and hating himself for it. Missouri's smile grew wider.

"Evil? Boy, you think you could just walk in this house if you were something evil?" Her voice softened and she patted the back of his hand. "You're not a demon, Sam. Your powers are what you make of them. It's your choice, to use them to help people or to hurt."

He swallowed. "Will you…will you help me?"

She patted his hand, something unidentifiable in her eyes. "I'll teach you all I know."


	2. Chapter 2

Dean grumbled under his breath, hoisting his duffle out of the trunk and tossing it to the ground with more force than was really necessary

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense… Betaed by the wonderful Phx :)

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the first chapter! I hope you guys enjoy this one, and the next chapter will be up same time next week :)

Chapter 2

Dean grumbled under his breath, hoisting his duffle out of the trunk and tossing it to the ground with more force than was really necessary. "_Get the bags Dean, drink your tea Dean, no funny business in the house Dean._" He mimicked Missouri's voice, half an eye on the front door. He had a feeling he wasn't going to enjoy this trip.

He slammed the trunk down, hissing as his thumb nail bent the wrong way with the pressure. He stuck it in his mouth, fumbling one-handed with bag straps and blinking rain from his eyes.

A loud bang drew his attention to the house next to Missouri's. A young woman with coffee-coloured skin stood in the driveway eyeing him suspiciously as she tossed a black bag into the garbage can by the fence. "You alright there?" She called over, one hand still holding the metal lid like a shield.

"Fine, thanks." He gave her a big fake smile and bent to untangle the bags.

The woman was undeterred. "You a relation?"

He cocked his head in question as he stood upright, yanking Sam's bag over his shoulder.

"Missouri. You her nephew or somethin'?" She elaborated, nodding at Missouri's neat little house. "She's like family to us around here, y'know."

He got the uncomfortable feeling he was being warned off. Instead of cowing under the scrutiny, he stood straighter with a frown. "Nope." He picked up the other bags and started up the path, deliberately turning his back to her.

"So you're here for a reading then?" She followed him on the other side of the fence, apparently unperturbed by his rudeness.

"A reading?"

"Yeah. Y'know, a psychic reading. That's what she does." The woman cocked a hip, pouting at him with an attitude that might have been intimidating had she not been a foot shorter than him. And soaked to the skin. She didn't seem to realise that he could clearly see the outline of her white bra through her now-translucent top, and he smothered a grin.

"No, we're old friends. Just dropping in for a visit. Might be here a while, got a lot of catching up to do." He said, his amusement rising as her scowl deepened.

"Hmmm." She didn't sound as if she believed him. "Well, you tell Missouri that I'll drop by later. The kids made some cookies for her."

"I sure will." Dean said, flashing his teeth. "And who should I tell her will be stopping by? Because she hasn't mentioned _you_ at all. I wouldn't want to allow a stranger over without Missouri's permission."

The woman's jaw clenched visibly. "Margaret. She knows who I am."

"Good friends, huh? Well, I'll make sure she'll be expecting you." He said, letting a hint of smarm slip into his voice. He stepped onto the porch, turning to waggle his fingers at her around the handle of the bag. She snorted hard enough that a wet rattail of black hair whipped away from her mouth, landing on her cheek with a splat.

Dean closed the door behind him, grinning to himself. His wet boots landed on top of Sam's as he kicked them off, the laces dripping muddy water. Imagining Sam's face as he stuck his feet into those boots and found them damp with dirt made the grin even brighter. Maybe staying here wouldn't be so bad after all.

* * *

Sam sat at the kitchen table holding his hot mug in both hands. Missouri wouldn't elaborate on how she was going to help him, but Sam felt a tiny niggling whisper of hope. It was more than he'd expected.

Dean was banging around upstairs, sounding like a herd of elephants even in socked feet. Sam thought he was probably doing it on purpose and stifled a smile. Dean liked to let everyone in on his mood swings. Missouri tutted over a saucepan of good-smelling food, but obviously decided that yelling wouldn't accomplish anything. Instead she ladled out a generous bowlful of beef casserole and placed it on a blue woven mat in front of Sam.

"Since Dean is apparently having so much fun moving the bags, we won't disturb him." She winked at him and picked up an oven mitt, scooping out two misshaped rolls of warm bread from a tray cooling on the counter. "Now you eat up, Sam Miller. You need some meat on those bones of yours."

"Thank you." Sam smiled, tearing one of the chunks of bread. Steam rose from the fluffy white centre, a warm scent that made Sam's mouth water. It suddenly occurred to him that he hadn't eaten a full meal in over a week. His stomach growled in agreement, and before he realised it half the bowl was gone.

"Hey, didn't you save me any?" Sam looked up into Dean's mournful face.

"If you're done stamping those big feet round my house, you can sit down and I'll bring some over for you." Missouri said, using a wooden spoon to gesture at the seat opposite Sam's.

"Yes ma'am." Dean nodded quickly, sitting down and looking expectantly over at the countertop full of food. Sam hid a grin behind a mouthful of gravy-soaked bread.

"What did I say about calling me ma'am?" Missouri said, placing a bowl in front of Dean all the same. "And am I gonna get Margaret's message or not?"

"Oh." Dean blushed, his hand pausing on the way to his mouth. "Uh, Margaret said she'll be coming by later with cookies."

Missouri nodded like she hadn't known what Dean was going to say already. Sam cocked his head quizzically and Dean leaned in when Missouri's back was turned. "Some woman who lives next door. She didn't seem too happy about us staying here." He looked positively gleeful about it. "Seemed like a real bitch if you ask me."

"No one asked you, Dean Winchester." Missouri said with a sharp look, sitting herself down between them at the table. "And no elbows on the table."

Dean mumbled something under his breath and moved them. Missouri sighed and turned to Sam like she didn't hear. "How's the casserole, Sam? Not overcooked, I hope?"

"It's fine. Good. Thanks." Sam said, busying himself with another spoonful.

"Good. After you're done eatin', you can come sit with me. I have a few customers due any minute now."

"Customers?"

"For readings. The two I'm expecting usually ask for their cards to be read, so you can see how it's done and get a handle on that first."

"S'you c'n help 'im?" Dean said through a mouthful of bread.

Missouri let out another sigh. "I can help Sam, but it'll take a lot of work. You'll be here for a few weeks, maybe a month or more."

Sam spoke before Dean could swallow his mouthful. "Card readings? I'm gonna have to learn that? I thought it would be more...y'know, psychic-y."

"We'll start you off slow." She smiled at him. "The cards give you a way to focus your energies on one particular thing, in this case reading a person's future. John said the first manifestation of your powers were visions?"

"Uh huh." Sam nodded, the chunk of bread in his hand forgotten.

"Well, this should be a simpler way of training that ability. Once you know how to focus, the rest should come a little easier. Hopefully."

Sam didn't like the way the corners of Missouri's mouth turned down on the last word, but she was on her feet again before he could question it. Under the table Dean's foot found his, the back brushing against his ankle bone in a repetitive motion.

"Now you boys eat up. My first customer seems to be having some car trouble, so you'll have time to settle in a bit before we start."

* * *

"Hey, you okay kiddo?" Dean asked. Sam paused at the top of the stair, turning. His mouth was pulled tight and he was squinting like his eyes were hurting again, an expression that had become familiar over the past week. Dean's hands twitched by his sides and he clenched them into fists.

"I'm fine." Sam said, a smile appearing like a light had been switched.

"Sammy. You're not fooling me." He leaned in closer, resisting the urge to hug the kid. "She said she can help."

Sam sighed like his entire body was aching and the mask slipped away. "She said _hopefully _she can help."

"She _can_, okay? She wouldn't be letting us stay here if she couldn't."

"Yeah, well maybe she's wrong, Dean! Maybe…maybe I'm…"

"Maybe nothing, Sam. She said she can help you and she will, alright? So stop worrying." Dean said, reaching out to squeeze Sam's forearm. Sam pulled away sharply before he could get close enough to touch.

"Yeah. Okay." Sam said, his eyes set on the floor between them. "Which room's mine again?"

Dean swallowed, trying not to feel rejected. He didn't think his shaky masculine pride could take any more girly emotions right then. "It's that one." He waved his arm at the closed door. "I left your bag on the bed."

"Thanks." Sam disappeared into the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. Dean stood dumbly on the landing, staring at the closed door. Had he said something wrong?

* * *

Sam leaned back against the door, fisting his eyes with both hands. They _hurt_, a spike of fire that made his teeth grit and his forehead bead with sweat. He dragged a breath in through his nose, making himself exhale slowly and quietly. Dean was probably still outside the door, wondering why the fuck Sam was shutting him out all of a sudden. He resisted the urge to whimper, knowing that would only have Dean kicking the door in to get to him. It felt like a stab wound through both eye sockets, a double flash of agony that hit and echoed through his head. And it only started when…

When Dean reached out to touch him. Dean's hand had been moving toward his arm, and suddenly, _pain_.

He bit down on his lower lip, feeling hot tears escaping the corners of his eyes, rolling down his cheeks and meeting under his chin.

Gradually the pain faded to a dull throb behind his eyeballs, and Sam angrily scrubbed the tear-tracks away with the cuff of his hoodie. It was still there though, pulsing in time with his blood, and every pulse felt like an omen.

* * *

Missouri knocked on the door, opening it and stepping inside without waiting for a reply. Sam lifted his head from the pillow, a feat that seemed to take far more effort than usual. He'd been curled up into himself on the floral-print bedspread for the past half hour, determinedly keeping his mind blank of everything as he traced careful fingertips over the fine stitching of the daisies by his nose.

"Honey, you okay there? I felt…" Missouri trailed off, closing the door behind her and taking a step toward the bed.

"It's nothing." Sam mumbled. "Jus' m'eyes. They've been hurtin' since…"

"Since the demon?"

He nodded.

Missouri let out a long breath, sitting on the bed beside him. Her long skirt brushed the polished floorboards in a _shh_ing sound and she took care to arrange them about herself, giving him a moment. When he looked up at her, her eyes were sympathetic. "It can be hard, believe me, I know. When your powers first manifest. But it'll get easier once you know how to use them. Once you realise what you're capable of."

"What am I capable of?" He said, his voice cracking. "'Cause, the more I find out about this stuff, the less I think I want to know. I was happier…" He stopped himself, frowning. Happier when? Without Dean? With his dad? If being with Dean had been what led to these…these powers, did that mean he wished he'd never met the older man? He shook his head, for once relishing the ache that flared to life again, dispelling the thought before it could fully form.

Missouri reached over, stroking his bangs away from his face with a gentle hand. It felt good, like summer rainshowers, soothing away the pain. He closed his eyes. "I know it's difficult now. And I won't lie to you, it's gonna be harder still once we get started. But your powers, they're a part of you. They're not gonna go away." She smiled, her gaze turning distant as if some memory had seized her. "Once you've learned all I have to teach you, they won't seem like such a burden. You'll be able to do things you never thought were possible. And you'll be _strong_. I can feel it in you."

"What if I don't want that? What if I just want to be me?" Sam said in a small voice.

Missouri's smile focused on him again, kind and motherly. "Honey, no one can ever be anything other than who they are. It's what you decide to make of yourself that matters. In your case, you just have a little extra to deal with."

Her words were bizarrely reassuring. Sam tried a wobbly smile.

"We have about thirty minutes before my first customer arrives. Why don't you take a nap and I'll call you down then?"

Sam nodded, suddenly feeling exhausted. He closed his eyes, listening to the soft sweep of Missouri's skirt on the floorboards as she got up to leave. He was asleep before she closed the door.

* * *

Dean sat quietly on the single armchair in Missouri's living room, a cookie in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. Margaret had been good to her word, stopping by with two covered plates, one containing chocolate chip and one with raisin-oatmeal cookies. Both plates sat on the coffee table in the centre of the room, half of their contents gone. His belly felt pleasantly full and he held the cookie up in consideration. Maybe he should put it back.

Margaret chose that moment to glare at him from her seat beside Missouri on the couch, and he bit a chunk off the cookie in reply, smiling at her around the raisins stuck between his teeth.

Missouri had told him that Sam was resting up before her mysterious 'customers' came and he should leave him undisturbed. It had pissed Dean off to be told how to look after the kid – he'd been doing it just fine for the past half a year without her guidance – but after a sharp look he'd settled for thinking bad thoughts in her direction and staying out of the way. Plus, there was the fact that the plush armchair he was currently occupying seemed to be sucking him in and consuming him with big puffy cushions and throw rugs. He didn't think he could get up without considerable effort.

Margaret didn't appear to like him any more now that she'd confirmed he was actually supposed to be there. She sent him narrow-eyed looks every time he shifted position in the chair, or cleared his throat, or otherwise did anything to draw attention to himself while she was in the room.

He frowned and made the chair squeak, just for the hell of it.

She sniffed loudly and clunked her mug of tea down on Missouri's coffee table, pointedly turning away to face the older woman on the couch. "Keira wanted to come round with the cookies herself, but she's at dance class at the moment. Her recital's coming up on Friday, I know she'd love it if you could come?"

Missouri's brow creased for a second before evening out. She reached over and patted Margaret's hand. "I'd love to, but I don't know if I'll have the time, what with Dean and Sam staying with me. But you send her over afterwards if she's not too tired, maybe she can give us the highlights." The news evidently didn't endear Dean to Margaret, and she waited until Missouri busied herself with pouring more tea to scowl at him.

"So how long are Dean and Sam going to be staying with you, Missouri?"

"Oh, I don't know." Missouri said, taking a sip of her tea. "Sam's here for…training, I guess you'd say, so as long as it takes."

Dean tensed, earning a look from Missouri. "Dean, don't get so upset now. Margaret's a friend. She knows what goes on in this house."

"Me, upset?" Dean forced a smile through gritted teeth. "Not at all."

He made sure to brush cookie crumbs onto her thick cream rug.

The doorbell chimed, breaking into the palpable air. "Oh, that'll be Mrs Hopkins." Missouri said, standing and bustling out to answer the door.

Dean was left with Margaret and her apparently permanent frown. He faked a smile and stuffed the last of the cookie into his mouth, making sure to chew as messily as possible. "Good cookies." She sniffed and looked pointedly away.

* * *

Mrs Hopkins didn't look like the type to consult a psychic. Actually, in Dean's opinion the woman didn't look like the type to consult anyone, for anything. She strode into the living room like she owned it, wearing a black business suit and shiny stiletto heels so painfully sharp he could see indentations in the hardwood flooring as she walked. Her hair was tied back in a sleek bun at the nape of her neck, and the expression on her face was so dour that even Margaret blinked a few times. She scanned the room, her lip curling at the sight of Dean slouched in the armchair.

"Mrs Hopkins, these are friends of mine." Missouri said, smiling like she hadn't noticed the dampener her new guest had put on the already tense mood.

"I hope they won't be staying for my reading." The woman's voice was as severe as her face.

Dean rolled his eyes, addressing Missouri. "If Sam's gonna be here, I'm staying."

"Excuse me?" Mrs Hopkins whirled to face him, her mouth pulled into a pursed crinkle Dean likened to a cat's ass. He glanced at Missouri and was surprised to find her looking at him, her own mouth pressed thin to hide a smile. "I _don't _think so. This is a _private _reading. I won't allow anyone else in the room."

"Dean, honey, why don't you and Margaret join me in the kitchen for a second? Mrs Hopkins, please make yourself comfortable." Missouri said, the tiny smile still flirting about her lips.

Margaret got to her feet first, pushing a polite smile onto her face with what looked like an effort. "It was very good to meet you, Mrs Hopkins." The sour-faced woman didn't acknowledge the nicety.

Dean heaved himself from the armchair, snagging another cookie before trailing after Missouri and Margaret.

He found Missouri brewing a fresh pot of tea in the kitchen. "Hey, so I hope you're gonna set that woman straight in there. If Sam's gonna be there, so am I."

Missouri looked over at him with the first real sign of kindness he'd seen from her so far. "I can't force her to let you listen in, Dean. And besides, this is something Sam needs to do alone. You being there might distract him."

"But-"

"I know, you want to be there." She nodded as if she understood. "And it's admirable, the way you care for him and look out for him. But this isn't something you can help with, honey."

He screwed his hands into tight fists, feeling impotent and stupid. Why the hell was he here then, if not for Sam? A careful hand on his arm surprised him into looking up, and he met Missouri's dark eyes.

"Sam'll need you, Dean. What we're gonna do, it's gonna be hard on him. But right now, the best thing you can do for Sam is to stay out of the way." She smiled, gently easing him toward the kitchen table. He sank into a chair, looking up at her and feeling like a lost puppy. "It'll be okay, I promise. I'll make sure he's okay."

Dean chewed on his lower lip, nodding reluctantly. He didn't like it, not at all, but this was what Sam was here for. "Shall I go and get him then?" He half-stood, stopped by Missouri's restraining hand.

"I'll do it, honey. You stay here and keep Margaret company." He'd almost forgotten the other woman was still there, and he glanced over at her. Surprisingly, she wasn't glaring in his direction. Margaret was watching him instead, her eyes narrowed in thought.

The sound of the kitchen door being firmly closed drew his attention back. Missouri had left to get Sam while his back was turned. Shutting him away, like an unnecessary hindrance. He dropped his head into his hands.

* * *

Sam shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny of the stern-faced woman sat on the couch. Although the living room was a cosy area, filled with soft furnishings and warm colours, Mrs Hopkins seemed to exude an aura of hardness that made the back of his neck prickle.

Missouri had moved an armchair over to the opposite side of the low coffee table, sitting herself down and looking perfectly unaffected as she shuffled a deck of oversized cards. Despite the edgy feeling in his gut, Sam leaned in to get a better look, curious.

"Now, I'm just going to do a simple three-card reading before we get into specifics." Missouri started, smiling at Sam. "I'll lay the cards and explain what each of them means. Sam, you don't have to do anything right now, just watch."

Beside him on the couch, Mrs Hopkins huffed loudly.

Missouri put the deck down on the table, indicating to Mrs Hopkins, who reached over to split the deck. The top three cards were put face down on the table.

"This is called a three-card spread; the first card represents the past, the second is the present and the third, the future." Missouri said, turning the first card over. It showed a picture of a king sat on a throne, a large brown staff in one hand with leaves growing from the top. At the bottom of the card was a tiny black lizard. Sam blinked, frowned at it.

"The king of wands, reversed." Missouri announced pointedly, her eyes on him. Sam started, realising that in his intrigue he'd moved forward, blocking Mrs Hopkins' view. He blushed and sat back. "This card suggests an impatient, sometimes reckless man, perhaps short-tempered and bullying. It could also mean you've attempted to take on too much in your past."

Mrs Hopkins _hmmmed _noncommittally. Missouri waited for a moment as if she was expecting more, but when the other woman didn't speak, turned over the second card.

"The five of cups."

The card was plainer than the first, dominated by a figure in a long black robe. Sam could see a snatch of red covering the figures eyes. In front of the figure, three large yellow cups lay on their sides, their contents spilled, while behind two cups sat upright. A headache began as a niggling sore spot in the centre of Sam's forehead.

"This card represents grief for the past. It suggests that in order to move forward with your life, you should allow yourself time to grieve and heal." Beside him, Mrs Hopkins' back straightened almost imperceptibly. Missouri glanced at her with concern. "Shall I go on?"

"Please." Mrs Hopkins spoke through her teeth, as if the reading was a trial she had to endure.

The last card portrayed an angel, and Sam's breath caught in his throat without reason. He could see, logically, that the card was supposed to promote peace and balanced emotions, but his eyes caught on the face of the angel, the circle on its head that spoke too much of judgement and omnipotence, and the deep red wings that surrounded the figure. His headache flared to life suddenly like a struck match.

"Temperance reversed. This card..." Missouri's voice wavered. He thought he heard her take a sharp breath. "This card represents haste. You need to gain perspective and consider the ramifications of your actions before you take any steps-"

"Thank you. I've heard enough." Mrs Hopkins spoke before Missouri could finish, breaking the spell that held the three of them. "I have another appointment to get to, if you don't mind. Here," She stood quickly, dropping a roll of bills on the table. "I'll let myself out." The hard staccato of her footsteps sounded like hailstones as she left the room, and a second later a door was slammed.

"What-" Sam started to speak. His eyes caught of the figure of the angel again, the figure of temperance. In the background was a yellow oval that he'd taken, at first, to be the sun. A narrow path led away from the angel, upwards, up to the tip of a mountain and into that yellow explosion.

He closed his eyes, pressing thumbs into them to try and stop the ache. Except it seemed to make it worse, seemed to make it _flare…_

…_he saw a young girl hiding under the covers of her bed, trying to stifle tears as the footsteps of her father stopped outside the bedroom door. He felt the denial that locked that terrified little girl away in the heart of an always-angry woman. And he saw her walking away from the angel, up the mountain path._

"Sam!"

He opened his eyes to see Dean's face inches from his own. Behind Dean, he could see a pretty woman – Margaret, his disjointed thoughts told him, although he wasn't sure how he knew – holding a towel stained with red, concern in her eyes.

"Sammy, oh Christ, are you okay? God, you're still bleeding…" The woman handed Dean the towel and he wiped gently at Sam's nose. "What happened? What did you see?"

"She's…she's gonna die, isn't she?" He whispered, lifting his head with what felt like unbearable effort.

In the armchair, Missouri sat with her hands in her lap, unreadable as the night. "It's not certain. It's the future. You of all people should know the future can be changed."

"We need to stop her!" Sam tried to push himself to his feet, Dean's hands more obstructing than helping. "We have to…have to try and-"

"Sam." Missouri's voice stopped him in place. "This isn't a demon that can be killed. We can't change people's minds for them."

"But we have to do something!"

"I've called her husband. He's going to go out and find her. Hopefully it will be enough." The older woman sagged in the chair suddenly. Margaret rushed to her side, a glass of water in hand. "Hopefully."


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense… Betaed by the wonderful Phx :)

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I love hearing your comments! The next chapter will be up same time next week :)

Chapter 3

An unending ream of curses ran through Dean's head as he heaped spoonfuls of brown sugar into a mug of milky tea.

Mrs Hopkins' husband had shown up at the door fifteen minutes earlier, rain-drenched and frantic with worry for his wife. He'd checked with her office, her grandmother, her work associates. No one had seen her. Missouri suggested she go with him to see if she could sense anything, and Margaret had refused to leave her side. Funny how Missouri never argued with _her_, Dean thought bitterly, tossing the spoon into the kitchen sink. Funny how Margaret was allowed to stay with the person she cared about, whereas _Dean _was banished to the kitchen when Sam needed him.

He carried the mug of warm tea into the living room, crouching down beside the armchair. Sam was still pale and shaking, but at least the nosebleed had stopped. The kid still held the stained tea towel though, clutched to his face like a little boy's blanky. He was wrapped up in the knitted throw from the back of the couch, and his other hand stroked over the rough weave repetitively.

"Hey, kiddo. Feeling better?" Dean said, making an effort to keep his voice soft. He held the tea out to him.

Sam blinked at him from under his bangs, making no move to take the offered mug. Instead he used the tea towel to point at the coffee table. "Can you…?"

Dean glanced over. The cards were still arranged on the table, three strange pictures that made no sense to him but seemed to cause Sam so much pain. He picked up the stack of unread cards, shuffling the three into it.

"There ya go. Better?"

Sam nodded, his eyes on Dean's hands as they put the pack facedown on the table again. The kid hunched down, tugging the throw around himself more securely. It made Dean's heart ache to see him, looking so young and scared yet simultaneously older than his years. There were shadows on his face and in his eyes that had no right being there.

To distract himself, Dean took one of Sam's limp hands and wrapped it around the mug. "Here, I made you some tea. Lots of sugar. I heard that's good for shock? Or something, I don't know. Drink it, please?" Dean's voice cracked on the last word, turning high and reedy. He turned away quickly, biting down on his tongue before it could betray him, maybe beg Sam to let them leave. Missouri said this was going to be hard, get harder, and if Sam was already so broken after one day, what was he going to be like after months?

The kid lifted the mug to his lips, his eyes on Dean's the whole time, an obvious act to try to reassure him. The pitiful attempt at a smile made Dean's teeth grit, and he stood up fast. "I'll go…get you another blanket."

They couldn't leave. Correction, Dean thought, Sam wasn't going to _let _them leave. And he couldn't, _wouldn't_, go anywhere without Sam. Instead of trying to change the kid's mind, Dean went to find a blanket. At least that much he could do.

* * *

Distantly Sam heard Dean stand up, murmuring something indistinguishable before leaving the room. He didn't turn to watch the older man's retreating back, even though he wanted to.

The pack of cards was still on the table. He could feel it, each individual card like a hum pitched so high it could only be felt by the prickle of hairs on his arms. If he closed his eyes he saw them, each of them flicking past clear as day, like a card-sharp's deal only face up, and never mind that he'd never _actually _seen them in real life. So he kept his eyes open, wide as they'd stretch until they started watering and he was forced to blink. But he couldn't redirect his gaze. He stared at the pack atop the shiny walnut wood of the coffee table, bigger than regular playing cards but still small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. If Dean were here he'd make some vaguely humorous comment there about Sam's giant paws, maybe something about bodily proportions, topping off his joke with a wink and a lewd eyebrow wiggle. A corner of Sam's mouth twitched in reaction to the thought, as if Dean had actually spoken and was waiting for Sam's laugh.

Dean would also tell him he was being stupid. _Afraid of a deck of cards, Sammy? What, are they gonna come after you in the night and papercut you to death?_ But it wasn't the _cards _he was afraid of, he thought as he held a deep breath in his chest. They were just cards, pieces of thick paper with pretty pictures on the front. Cards couldn't hurt anyone. Not by themselves.

Sam started as a heavy weight landed on his shoulders. His head snapped up, mouth a silent moue of surprise.

Dean stood over him, his brow creased in concentration as he tried to arrange a thick fleece blanket around Sam's body. He hadn't noticed Sam's reaction. "Here. It might get kinda sweaty, but I couldn't find anything else to use. It'll stop the shivering at least."

"Thanks." Sam whispered, his voice rusty. His eyes wandered over to the cards again.

"You haven't drunk your tea."

The indignation in Dean's tone and the absurdity of the statement made Sam blink, and suddenly the cards weren't important anymore. A grin pulled at his lips and he looked up at Dean's frown. "Dude, when did you turn into a woman? And a nagging woman at that?"

Dean's eyes widened for a second. A hesitant grin grew in reply to Sam's, relief colouring his face. "Hey, I made that tea special, just for you. I wanna see some appreciation."

Sam rolled his eyes, taking an exaggerated swig and making _mmm_ noises.

"That's more like it." Dean said with a firm nod, the grin still in place.

The sound of a car door being slammed outside made both of them turn to the window, tension seeping back into the room. A rattle of keys and the click of the front door lock signalled Missouri's entrance. The woman looked tired, her face pulled tight and her eyes downcast. Sam felt the tea in his stomach turn to acid.

"Did-did you…" He couldn't finish his sentence.

"We found her. She was pretty badly hurt, but she'll live." Missouri said. She didn't meet his eyes.

Dean stood up straight, his shoulders set. "What happened?"

"She crashed her car. The paramedics said they would write it up as accidental." Missouri's lips pursed. "Luckily she only broke a leg. It could have been much worse."

Sam swallowed hard. Against his will his gaze fell on the coffee table, and suddenly he was blinking away tears. He ducked his head so that his hair fell over his forehead, hoping Dean wouldn't catch him. God, this was _stupid_. It was all stupid. Some woman he barely even met decides that today of all days is the day to attempt suicide, and because of what? Because she got her cards read? Because he was there?

_It's not my fault_. He told himself angrily. _It's not _my_ goddamn fault that she did it_.

Easier said than believed. The acid in his stomach didn't fade away, and neither did the guilt.

* * *

Dinner was quiet.

Sam and Missouri sat opposite one another at the kitchen table, both snatching quick glances at each other and looking away just as fast. Dean felt like he was refereeing some kind of bizarre anti-staring contest, the winner determined by the number of looks they could sneak past the other person.

After five minutes Dean sighed and concentrated on his food. If there was one situation he knew he could handle effectively, it was the filling of his stomach. And Missouri's version of a 'light' meal was better than any three-course dinner, in his opinion. Fried bread, sausages and sunny-side up eggs were all piled precariously on top of each other on his plate, split yolks threatening to drip onto the table, and Dean wondered between mouthfuls whether the disastrous reading and its consequences was God's way of balancing out the heavenly food.

Beside him Sam prodded at a sausage with his fork, making no attempt to eat.

"Well, isn't this cheery." Dean couldn't help himself; the words travelled from his brain to his lips with no conscious thought. He winced, catching Sam doing the same from the corner of his eye. Missouri chuckled at the other end of the table. It wasn't a happy sound.

"I think I'm just gonna…go to bed." Sam said quietly, pushing his full plate away.

"You've barely touched your food." Dean said, wincing again. God, he really did sound like a nagging wife.

"Not hungry."

"Sam…"

But the kid was already standing, tossing his balled-up napkin to the table and shuffling toward the door with a gait like an old man. Dean half-rose to stop him but Missouri caught his arm, pulling him back into his seat.

"Let him go, Dean. It's been a long day." She smiled softly. Dean was struck with a sudden and unexplained urge to punch her. He pushed it away, hoping she didn't catch the thought floating through his mind. She didn't stop smiling, but her eyes darkened. "Let him go." She repeated, sharper.

He leaned in, his jaw stiff. "Look, I don't know who you think you are, telling me how to look after him when you don't even know us, but if you think I'm just gonna leave him when he's upset-"

"I'm not trying to _tell _you anything, Dean." She spoke over him, raising her chin. "But you came here looking for my help. _Sam _came here looking for my help. I understand what he's going through because I've been through the same thing. All I ask is that you accept my advice."

Dean pushed the chair back and stood, using his height to tower over her. "I'll accept your help and advice about the psychic stuff, fine. But I'm not gonna do whatever the fuck you tell me to, just because you say so." He paused for a second, almost expecting the woman to retaliate. Instead she let out a slow breath, carefully placing her knife and fork on her half-eaten plate of food like she wasn't bothered by anything he might have to say.

"Okay, Dean Winchester. Have it your way." She gestured to the door with an open hand.

He looked at her for a long moment before clenching his fists and striding for the door.

* * *

Sam's hands shook as he tried to unbutton his shirt, and he ended up digging a nail into his chest. The sudden sharp pain made him gasp, made him look down as his fingers jittered like he was coming off a bender. He remembered how his dad's hands would shake, fine tremors that spilt coffee grounds and fumbled with the triggers of loaded guns. That was about the time Jim Miller relinquished the actual hunting part of the job to Sam and became a full-time drinker. His hands never shook when they were wrapped around a beer bottle.

A knock at the door distracted Sam from his thoughts. He stepped over his discarded jeans and socks, opening the door wide enough to stick his head through. It didn't surprise him to find Dean shifting on his feet outside.

"Hey." Dean said, a faint flush of pink high on his cheeks. He scratched at the back of one hand, glancing away down the stairs quickly. "Just wanted to check you were okay."

Sam nodded quickly. "I'll be alright. Just tired."

"Yeah." It didn't look as if Dean believed him, unsurprisingly. "Can I come in?"

Sam frowned, his hand tightening on the door instinctively, closing it slightly. Dean's face blanched at the action, and Sam looked at his hand like it was a separate creature. Why the hell had he done that? Forcefully he threw the door open wide, stepping back to allow Dean entrance. The older man took a cautious step in, looking at him sidelong like he was afraid Sam might change his mind.

"You sure you're okay, Sam? I mean…not _okay _okay, obviously, but, y'know…okay?"

"Yeah, it's just…been a long day."

Dean's eyes softened and he took a step into Sam's space, reaching a hand out to stroke his bangs off his face. "Sam, if you want to leave-"

"No." He said it before Dean could finish his sentence, and the older man looked startled at the vehemence behind the word. "No, I need to do this. I don't…" He looked down.

"What? You don't what?" Dean said, tilting his face up with a gentle touch.

"I don't wanna hurt anybody." He said it in a rush.

Dean's eyes widened. "Hurt anybody?"

"With my…my powers. Your dad said the other psychic kids-"

"Dad's _wrong_. Sam, you're not gonna hurt anyone. You don't have it in you." A bubble of laughter welled up in Sam's throat at that. Didn't have it in him? Then what the hell _was _that thing, lurking right there behind his eyes? What was it if not the potential to hurt?

But Dean didn't seem to notice anything. The other man moved away, looking around the room. His gaze caught on the vase of pink carnations on the big antique-wood dresser, the daisy-patterned bedspread. "Dude, you got the better room. I didn't get flowers."

"You can have mine if you want." The lighthearted tone was an effort to produce, but the curve of Dean's full lips was worth it. Sam wished he could spend the rest of his life doing nothing but finding ways to bring that smile to Dean's face.

"Aw, really Sammy? You'd give me flowers?"

"Hey, if the pink fits."

"Nah, that's okay. You keep 'em." Dean pulled one out of the vase, breaking the petalled head off carefully. He reached out and stuck it in Sam's hair, behind his ear. "There you go. You're a pretty princess now."

His hand lingered, his thumb brushing the apple of Sam's cheek like a breath of air. Sam let his eyes flutter closed, not surprised when the caress was followed by a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. He moved into it, rewarded by another, longer taste of Dean's mouth, the faint touch of tongue. Dean's hands travelled down his arms, curling around his fingers and squeezing. Sam noted distantly that he'd stopped shaking.

Dean pulled back a little, bumping the tip of his nose against Sam's. "Hey, if you want I could stay here tonight?"

Sam opened his eyes, frowning slightly. "But Missouri said…"

A shadow passed over Dean's face, gone again in an instant. "Never mind what Missouri said, I'm not gonna leave you alone if you need me, kiddo."

"No, it's okay." Sam shook his head, smiling for Dean's benefit. "Seriously, I'm good now. No point in starting trouble on the first night."

Dean bit his lip, looking unsure.

"Really, Dean." Sam said, letting an edge of insistence slip into his voice. "I _can _last one night by myself." He pressed his lips to Dean's to soften his words, only pulling away when he felt Dean's resistance crumbling. "You'll be right across the hall the whole time. I'll come and get you if I need you. Okay?"

Dean took a visible breath, letting it out slowly. "Okay. If you're sure."

"I'm sure."

He stood firm and upright as Dean walked to the door, casting a glance back that said he _really _wasn't happy about leaving. As soon as the door closed behind him Sam sank to the bed, his head falling forward into the cradle of his hands.

* * *

The digital clock glowed red in the darkness, the numbers flicking over soundlessly. Four am. Sam stared at it, feeling the light burn into his retinas.

He wanted to go to Dean. God, he wanted so much to get up and cross the hall, open the door whisper-quiet, slip into the other bed and have Dean's warm arms wrap around him tight. Instead he shivered and rolled over, dragging the comforter with him until he was cocooned inside it.

A car drove past the house, illuminating the windows of Sam's room and casting brilliant yellow across the walls, a living shadow display. He squeezed his eyes closed and listened to the rumble of the engine as it faded.

His mind wouldn't _shut up_. Whispers he couldn't quite keep a hold on, images flashing fast as fire flickers, the back-beat of his heart pounding against his skull like a jackhammer. It didn't _hurt_, exactly, but it wasn't really conductive to a restful night.

He grunted, throwing himself onto his other side and yanking at the corner of his pillow until his body was wrapped around it. Maybe if he pretended, he could imagine it was a real living body. He didn't realise how much he'd gotten used to dodging Dean's knees at night, listening to the funny snorting noises he made in his sleep, even waking up sweating and half-choked by Dean's full-body snuggling.

It was impossible. Finally Sam threw the covers away, lying spread-eagled on his back, staring blankly at the ceiling.

"Fuck." He spoke to the spider creep-crawling along above his head, dragging the word out until it was more sigh than speech. The spider continued on its way, uncaring.

He looked over at the door. It would be a bad idea to sneak into Dean's room. It would be rude, an abuse of Missouri's hospitality.

Glossed wooden boards lined the floor, polished to a mirror shine. In the dark they looked like spilled oil. Sam was careful to step on the edges of each board, walking on tip-toes and watching his bare feet. A creaking floorboard might wake the entire house.

He opened the door, stepping into the hall. Dean's door was shut. He glanced down the hallway to Missouri's room before moving closer, raising a hand to the brass doorknob.

Hesitated, his fingers outstretched to the air inches from it.

He sighed, turning away and walking to the staircase. He couldn't go against Missouri's wishes, not when she was putting herself out to help him.

The hallway was pitch black and the air seemed to hinder his movements, as if he was walking through tar. Outside the wooden wind chimes clattered together softly like chattering teeth.

He was intending on getting a glass of water, maybe one of those cookies he'd seen Missouri wrap up and put in a cupboard. So he wasn't sure why he was pausing in the living room. Turning toward the black rectangle of the open door.

When he stepped inside, his breath caught.

Missouri kept the cards wrapped in a piece of black satin, folded exactly. He'd watched her from the armchair as she bustled around the room, 'putting things to rights' as she called it. The expected second customer had been called and his reading put off until later in the week, so the cards weren't needed again. Missouri had put them away in the top drawer of the dresser, tucking them in amongst old books and papers scrawled with obscure diagrams, tiny silk bags and bundles of dried herbs. Sam had watched her do it.

So why were the cards now laid out on the coffee table?

The pack sat to one side, while three cards were placed precisely parallel to one another in an echo of the earlier reading.

Sam's hands began to shake.

He moved closer, compelled by something he couldn't name. The darkness in the room and the drawn curtains made it hard to see, and absently he switched on a lamp on the small table beside the couch.

The three cards sat silent on the table like a statement, a full stop. Even from a distance Sam could make out the names printed along the bottom of each.

The Fool. The Hierophant. The Hanged Man.

His heart caught in his throat, beating hard enough to choke. His eyes seemed to be locked on those three cards, their pictures imprinted on his mind like a scald. Inside his head something shifted like a snake uncoiling, a stretch of untried muscles that settled again like it had never been. _Not yet_, it seemed to be saying. _Not yet, but soon_.


	4. Chapter 4

When Dean was confronted with Sam's empty room in the morning, the bed looking like someone had held a wrestling tournament under the sheets, his first thought was that Sam must have come looking for him in the night and that somehow he'd missed the kid

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense… Betaed by the wonderful Phx :)

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, I love hearing what you guys think! Someone asked about the tarot card meanings – they aren't explicitly explained in this chapter, but they will reappear later in the story ;) And a few people commented on the growing separation between Sam and Dean; they will be reunited, don't worry, but it's not gonna happen in this chapter I'm afraid… I am going somewhere with all of this though, so hopefully you guys will stick with me :) Next chapter will be up same time next week…

Chapter 4

_The Fool. The Hierophant. The Hanged Man_.

They circled Sam's mind on a constant loop, faster and faster until the colours blurred into a confused mess. He didn't know how long he stood in the centre of the dimly-lit room, staring stupidly at the table.

When someone touched his arm, he almost jumped out of his skin.

"Sam, honey. Sit down." Missouri stood beside him, looking completely out of place in a long flannel dressing gown over her white nightgown. "Sit _down_." She urged again, propelling him toward the armchair. He sunk into it, his hands reflexively gripping the padded arms.

"What…"

"Did you do this?" Missouri asked, waving a hand at the cards laid out on the table.

He looked up at her. "No? I thought…"

Her forehead creased. "Oh. Oh, honey."

He opened his mouth to ask her what was going on, what was _happening_, but before he could get the words out a shrill ringing interrupted. Missouri's hand tightened on his arm, her nails digging into the skin.

Dean's cell phone. The older man must have put it down and forgotten about it when he went to bed. It sat on the little side table to the left of the armchair, screen lit up as it rang again, a doleful bleating noise that sounded like a dying bird. Absently Sam wondered when Dean stopped using those ridiculous versions of eighties rock tunes as his ringtones. Probably around the time Sam started scaring the crap out of him with his psychic powers. No time to shop around for funny ringtones when he had a freaky psychic in the passenger seat.

Sam picked it up on the third ring. "Hello?"

"_Sam? That you? Where's Dean?" _

"John?"

"_Yeah. Look, I need to speak to Dean. It's important."_

Sam bit his lip. "Dean's asleep." He half-hoped John would demand that he go and get the other man. He wanted Dean with him, more than anything. But John just kept talking.

"_Did you boys get to Missouri's alright?"_

"Yeah, she's right here. Did-did you wanna speak with her?"

"_Look, Sam, this is important. I think the demon knows where you boys are."_

"What?" Sam sat up straight in the chair, his fingers clutching the cell phone.

"_Yeah. I've been tracking the signs, and they all point to Kansas right now. I think it's there somewhere."_

"What does it want? Is it after…us?" _Me_, his mind screamed. _It's after me. _

"_I don't know. But you boys need to be careful, okay? Stay with Missouri. The wards on her house should be enough…" _John's voice faded into static. Sam waited, the cell phone pressed to his ear so hard it hurt. But the bleep of the dial tone told him John had been cut off. He fumbled to redial, his fingers numb.

The only answer was John's voicemail message.

"Honey, what is it?" Missouri asked, stroking fingernails through his hair and tucking it behind his ear.

"It was John. He said…he said the demon knows we're here. It's coming after us." Sam said, staring at the dead cell in his hands like he could will a connection to John Winchester.

Missouri's sudden flurry of movement took him by surprise. He looked up to see her sweeping the cards off the table with one hand, haphazardly shoving them together.

"What are you doing?" An ice-cold spike ran through his veins. "Do you…did the demon do that? Did it get in somehow?"

Missouri spared him a glance. "I don't know, sweetie. But if it's here we should be prepared. Come on, you can help me strengthen the wards." She turned to the dresser in the corner, opening drawers and pulling out the bags of herbs and papers he'd seen earlier.

He stood up, feeling dazed and scared. It must have shown on his face because Missouri paused, taking a moment to stroke a hand down his bare arm. The almost-motherly gesture soothed him.

"Come on. There's holy water in the kitchen. You know how to read a blessing, don't you?"

"Yeah, but…shouldn't we wake Dean?"

He frowned as her face blanked, like someone had rubbed out all the emotion. "We don't need to bother Dean. He should get some sleep."

Sam bit on his lower lip. He still wanted the reassurance of Dean's presence, but maybe Missouri was right. _One _of them should get some sleep tonight, at least. They could bring Dean up to speed in the morning.

* * *

It was gone eleven when Dean woke up, his head groggy and dull like he'd been out drinking the night before. He dressed in a fug, stumbling across the hall to Sam's room.

When he opened the door, the bed was empty.

It looked like someone had held a wrestling tournament under the sheets, the pillows tossed to the floor. His first thought was that Sam must have come looking for him in the night and that somehow he'd missed the kid snuggled up beside him in the pile of blankets. Even though he _knew _it wasn't possible – sleeping beside Sam was a full-body experience, and not just in the naughty way – he still crossed the landing and stuck his head around his bedroom door to check. A quick scan of the room only revealed an empty bed and last night's clothes tossed in a pile in the corner of the room.

Conclusion: Sam wasn't upstairs.

He took the stairs in giant leaps, suddenly wide awake and so tense it felt like his back was one solid knot of muscle. It was stupid, he told himself, Sam wouldn't have done anything without him, not after last night. He ignored the way his heart rate quickened.

The sun was high in the sky, shining through the mottled-glass windows by the front door and casting patterns on the shiny floorboards. Dean cursed himself for sleeping in. It was strange; he was usually a light sleeper. The slightest noise was enough to have him lurching to his feet and stumbling for a weapon. But in addition to having the best food this side of _anywhere_, it appeared that Missouri also had the best damn pillows in the world, and despite Dean's resolve to stay awake and listen for Sam he'd found himself sinking into a deep sleep minutes after his body hit the mattress.

The sound of muffled tears propelled him toward the closed kitchen door, and he threw it back with a bang.

He was met on the other side by Missouri's now-familiar scowl. "Boy, do you have to charge about the house like your feet are on fire?"

He ignored her, scanning the room for the source of the crying. "Sam?"

But it wasn't Sam's tears he'd heard. Margaret pushed back her chair and stood, her chin raised defiantly despite the blotchy skin around her eyes. Her hair was tied back in a simple ponytail and she was wearing pyjamas.

"Oh." Dean took a step back, feeling a blush darkening his cheeks. "Uh, sorry for interrupting. I was…looking for Sam?"

Missouri glanced back at the younger woman, her mouth pressed into a tight line. There were wiry hairs escaping the rough knot at the back of her neck and curling at her temples. Dean let her take his arm and guide him back into the hall. She turned to face him as she shut the door to the kitchen, her expression harried.

"Sam's gone to run an errand for me. I meant to do it myself, but Margaret showed up…" She didn't look too pleased about her neighbour's tears. Dean frowned, the reaction troubling him for some reason. He looked away, foolishly hoping that Missouri wouldn't catch the thought. His eyes caught on the front door again, and he noticed something odd.

There were sigils drawn around the wood frame that he was certain weren't there the day before. He squinted; they were runes. He only recognised one, familiar from years of watching his dad performing wards and rituals – the fork-shaped Algiz, a protection rune. The others were a mystery to him, and for a second he wished he hadn't always been so stubborn when John Winchester tried to drill knowledge into his head.

He turned back to Missouri, not bothering to try and mask his rising anxiety. "Where's Sam gone?"

She sighed heavily, rubbing at her eyes with a fist clenched tight. "He's picking up some things for me in town. Your father called last night."

Dean cocked his head at the seemingly unrelated topic change. "And?"

"He called to warn us. There're signs that…that the yellow-eyed demon is here. In town. His call was cut off before he could tell us any more."

"_What_?" Dean took an involuntary step forward, his hand coming up to grip Missouri's upper arm. "When was this?"

"About two this morning."

"Why the hell didn't you wake me up?" He forced the words through gritted teeth and swelling anger, mindful of Margaret on the other side of the door. His hand contracted on the older woman's arm, his knuckles turning white. "What exactly did he say?"

Missouri tugged ineffectually at her arm. "Dean, you're hurting me!"

"_What did he say_?"

"Dean!" Sam's voice cut through the air, high and shocked. Dean turned to see him stepping through the front door, limned by sunlight and the runes traced around the doorframe. He held a white plastic carrier bag in one hand, and his eyes were wide. "What are you doing? Let her go, you're hurting her!"

Dean looked down at the woman in his grasp, seeing the scene from Sam's perspective. Missouri, grey-faced and pressed up against the staircase, and him towering over her, fingers dug into her arm. He let go abruptly, backing up with both hands held out to his sides.

"What's going _on _here?" Sam said. Dean bit down at the inside of his cheek as Sam rushed to Missouri's side, his face showing open concern. The expression was replaced by incredulity when he turned to Dean. "What were you doing, Dean?"

"Hey, I wasn't doing anything!" He said, sharper than he meant to. Sam flinched, and instantly Dean felt like a complete bastard.

He took a deep breath, trying to tamp down on the emotion making his heart pound. "I wasn't doing anything," he tried again, calmer. "Missouri was telling me my dad called. I wanted to know why she didn't come and find me."

The kitchen door was opened before anyone could speak, but Dean caught the downward flick of Sam's eyes. He narrowed his own.

Margaret stepped into the hall. "Sorry for interrupting. Um, I can leave if you guys have something important to do…" Her eyes looked sore and red, shiny trails telling of recent tears lining her cheeks.

"Oh no, honey, we're just finishing out here. Right, Dean?" Missouri levelled a look carefully devoid of emotion in his direction. She reached a hand out to Sam beside her. "Sweetie, will you bring that bag into the kitchen for me?"

Sam nodded, allowing Missouri to take his arm. Irritation flared up in Dean's chest as he watched her leaning into him, like Dean had seriously injured her. He tried to catch Sam's eyes, but the kid was resolutely fixated on his feet. His lips looked bitten raw, and as Dean watched he started chewing on the corner of his mouth.

He followed them into the kitchen. Margaret started making a pot of tea, and Sam helped Missouri into a chair and then set about putting away the bag of whatever-it-was. It all looked disturbingly domestic, and Dean felt uncomfortable and out of place shifting on his feet by the door.

"Dean, why don't you sit down. You slept through breakfast, you must be hungry." Missouri's voice was icily polite, like he was an unwelcome stranger in her house. No doubt that was how she saw him, anyway. Dean took the chair beside her, feeling Sam and Margaret's subtle glances behind him like pinpricks at the back of his neck. "Let me make you a sandwich." Missouri began to rise.

Immediately Sam broke in. "No, don't get up. I'll make Dean something, it's fine."

She clucked her tongue. "Sam, you look exhausted already."

Sam shook his head, attempting a wan smile. "I'm good, really. I'll make us all some lunch. You've been up just as long as I have, anyway."

The kid looked almost embarrassed about it, glancing timidly at Dean through his bangs. Dean kept his mouth shut, but his mind was working a mile a minute. What the fuck had gone down while he was sleeping, and why the hell was he suddenly the bad guy?

Ungritting his teeth, he pulled a smile on like a mask. "If it's _okay _with everyone, I think I'd like to call my dad now."

* * *

The dark look didn't leave Dean's face, and Sam felt even worse when he pulled the older man's cell phone out of his back pocket and handed it over.

"Uh, I've been trying to call him back, but it just goes through to voicemail every time." Sam said, trying to avoid Dean's eyes. "I think maybe he's just out of range or something, 'cause I tried to call Caleb and the same thing happened."

"He called on my cell?" Dean stared at the object in his hand as he spoke.

"Yeah." Sam ducked his head. "He, uh, he didn't get a chance to say much. Just that," he glanced over at Margaret, who had her back to them and looked wholly involved in the boiling kettle. Sam lowered his voice to a whisper anyway. "That the signs all pointed to the demon being here. He said we should stay here and that Missouri's wards should be enough to protect us."

"And you didn't think to wake me and tell me this?"

Sam bit down on his lip, hard. It had seemed simpler, made sense, just to let Dean sleep last night. Why wake the whole house when he and Missouri could handle it themselves? But seeing the fear etched in Dean's face hit him like a punch. Of _course _Dean would want to know about the demon, about his dad.

"I'm sorry." He met Dean's eyes tentatively. The older man was staring at him like he didn't recognise him, and Sam felt sick with guilt and shame.

"What happened to 'no keeping things from each other', Sam?" The worst thing was, Dean didn't sound angry. He wasn't shouting or raging. Instead he spoke in a tiny high voice that multiplied the sickness in Sam's stomach by a hundred. "What if something's happened to…" Dean was on his feet and striding from the kitchen before he'd finished talking, dialling the number with one hand. Sam finished the sentence in his head; _what if something's happened to my dad, what if he's in trouble, and you just let me sleep through it? _He sank bonelessly into Dean's abandoned chair, staring blankly at his hands. Those three cards suddenly flashed through his mind again. He still hadn't asked Missouri what they meant, but their meaning seemed pretty obvious to him. He was The Fool, the idiot, the guy who made all the mistakes leading up to this moment. The Hanged Man was his future, the result of those mistakes.

Missouri's voice cut through the self-recrimination party he had going on in his head. "Sam, honey." She covered his hands with her own. "Let's make some lunch. Dean'll be hungry when he comes back."

He met her eyes, stupidly grateful to be given something to do.

* * *

"_This is John Winchester. I can't take your call right now. If it's important, leave a message with your name and number, or call my son Dean on __866-907-3235."_

Dean snapped the phone shut without bothering to wait for the beep, clenching his hand tight around it. He'd dialed his dad's number nine times now, and all he got was the damn voicemail message.

He let out a shaky breath, scrubbing a fist through his hair. This was bad. This was bad, and _Sam hadn't told him_. He didn't know whether he wanted to turn around and yell at the kid or run to the car and drive, just drive aimlessly for hours until he could get his head around it, think up some kind of plan. There wasn't a thing he liked about the entire situation, and it all seemed to be happening so _fast_; Sam's powers, the demon, whatever mysterious problem Missouri seemed to have with him. And now this.

"Dean? I made you a sandwich." He spun on his heel to see Sam standing behind him in the hallway, holding out a plate like a peace offering.

He grunted and flipped open the cell phone again, pressing redial.

"Dean? Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you. Really. I didn't…I thought you deserved to get some sleep; you've been driving for days, man. I just…I just thought we could handle it."

"_We_?" Dean bit out, snapping the cell phone closed on his dad's voicemail message.

Sam's eyes darted to one side. "Yeah. Me and Missouri. There wasn't really anything to _do _anyway, we just strengthened the wards and waited to see if your dad would call back-"

"So she was in on this too. Was it her idea to keep me in the dark?"

"No! No, it wasn't like that Dean, we weren't trying to-" Sam took a step forward, his eyes wide and imploring.

Dean snorted. "You didn't think I'd want to know my dad called? That you couldn't get through to him?"

"Well, no, but we thought-"

"You thought." Dean said blackly. "You thought that it was more important for me to get my _beauty sleep _than it was for me to find out what was going on."

Sam looked devastated, close to tears. "Dean, I'm _sorry_. It-it seemed like the right thing to do last night…"

Dean looked away, fixing his eyes on the framed print hanging in Missouri's narrow hallway. It showed a mountain range, white-tipped spikes and brilliant blue skies. Harsh and desolate. It seemed out of place against the cream wallpaper with its tiny collections of yellow blossoms, the warm oak wood of the banister.

"Yeah. Okay." He took the plate from Sam, pushing past him into the kitchen again. The kid didn't follow.

Margaret was sitting at the table, her eyes empty as she stared into her mug of tea. She fingered the cuff of her pajama top absently and her gaze drifted up to meet his, slow like she'd been drugged. "Missouri's gone to water her garden." She said, like she thought he'd care.

"Yeah? Shame, 'cause I was _so _hoping for another _delightful _conversation with her."

"Are you always this much of a bastard?" She said, a spark of the fire he'd seen in her yesterday colouring her words.

Dean shrugged roughly, yanking a chair away from the table and sitting down. The plate of sandwiches was put to one side. For some reason, he wasn't feeling too hungry. "Yeah, pretty much."

A faint smile appeared on her face; not at all the reaction he'd been anticipating. Her eyes fell back to her mug and the smile faded. "Thought so."

He looked at her for a moment, waiting for more. When it became obvious she wasn't going to argue with him he flicked open his cell phone again, pressing redial.

"So what did they do that was so terrible?" Margaret was looking at the cell phone in his hands with something resembling interest. She continued, her voice tinged with sarcasm. "Missouri and your friend, that is. They didn't pass on your phone messages or something?"

"Why were you crying?" Dean countered, his lip curling. "Did all that bitchiness take too much out of you, or are you just a miserable person generally?"

"Actually, I just received a letter from my ex-husband's lawyer, saying he's suing me for custody of my children." Margaret sat back in her chair, her mouth a tight pinch. "I was crying because I don't have the money to hire a defence lawyer. I don't have the money to make rent next month, I don't even have the money to pay for the ballet lessons my daughter's been taking or the goddamn swing set I bought on an overdrawn credit card for my son's birthday next week."

Dean blinked, a cold lick of embarrassment trailing down his neck. "…oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

"Uh, sorry? I…didn't realise."

"Didn't think so." She lifted the mug of tea to her lips, taking a deliberate sip. "So? Are you gonna tell me what's wrong with you, or would you rather trade some more insults?"

He fixed his eyes on the woodgrain of the table, tracing it with careful fingertips. Without looking up, he said, "My dad apparently called me last night with some…bad news, and no one thought to wake me up and tell me. Now we can't get hold of him, and I think something might have happened."

"Huh."

His head snapped up. "'Huh?' That's all you've got to say?"

She shrugged. "Well, maybe they just thought you deserved some rest. If they couldn't get hold of him last night, and you can't get hold of him now, then what would be the point of waking you up in the middle of the night just to tell you that?"

"The point is, I want to know if something happened to my dad! Wouldn't you want to find out as soon as possible if, I don't know, one of your _kids_ was missing?"

"Well, yeah. But it's done now. And they obviously thought they were doing you a favour." She picked up her mug again, cradling it in both hands. "Missouri wouldn't deliberately keep something from you if she thought it might hurt someone. And your friend Sam seems like he cares about you a lot. They thought they were doing the right thing."

Dean opened his mouth to retort. Before he could get a word out his cell phone chimed, loud and obnoxious. He scrambled with it, flicking it open and pressing it to his ear. "Dad, is that you?"

"…_ean…there?"_

"Dad!" Hardly aware of what he was doing, Dean shoved away from the table and stood, his free hand gripping the wooden back to the chair in a death-grip. "I can't hear you properly, you're breaking up. Where are you?"

The kitchen door opened with a bang, Sam appearing in front of him like an apparition. His eyes were stretched wide and fixed on Dean's.

"_Dean...the demon…souri…it's going aft…don't leave…alone…hear?"_

"Dad, I can't hear you!"

"_Sam's not…Missouri's ward's, they…" _There was a long pause, the crackling on the other end telling him his dad hadn't been cut off. Then his dad spoke again, and his words left Dean cold. _"…Kansas…hunt this thing…"_ A loud burst of static filled his ear, and then the beep of a disconnected call. Dean sagged back into the chair, his hand still pressing the phone to his ear.

"Dean! Dean, what did he say? Dean!" Sam's face was in front of his, pale and frightened.

Dean bit the inside of his cheek hard, meeting Sam's eyes. "The demon's in Kansas. I think he wants me to hunt it."


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense… Betaed by the wonderful Phx :)

Thanks so much for the reviews you guys, I love hearing what you think! And remember, I am going somewhere with this, so please don't hate me at the end of the chapter :) Next chapter up same time next week!

Chapter 5

Dean sat with his head in his hands, that damn armchair of Missouri's trying its best to devour him. He'd relocated to the living room to avoid the questions, the arguments that were just now starting.

His dad had called, and he'd told Dean to go hunting.

He sucked a sharp breath in through his nose, rubbing both hands over his face.

His dad had also said something about Sam. _Sam's not… _Sam's not, _what_? Sam's not safe? Sam's not protected? Or something worse?

A gentle knock on the open doorframe surprised him into looking up. He was even more surprised to see Missouri standing there instead of Sam. She waited until he waved her in; polite for someone who'd been ready to accuse him of assault half an hour ago. He watched her warily, didn't trust her sudden nicety at all. But she stepped in quietly, seating herself on the sofa and carefully arranging her skirts around her.

"I have a lead on where you might start looking for this demon." She said suddenly, lifting her head and meeting his eyes. "A friend of mine, Tony, he lives down in Wichita. He specialises in Judaeo-Christian demonology."

Dean cocked his head to one side, frowning. "How is that gonna help me find the demon?"

She rolled her eyes, looking heavenward. "Honestly, you and your father; it's a wonder you can get anything done, it really is." Dean swallowed down his irritation and nodded at her, telling her wordlessly to get to the point. She let out a theatrical sigh before continuing. "You have no idea what you're dealing with. None of you do. You're just reacting – and doing a terrible job at that, from the looks of things. You boys think everything can be solved if you wave a gun around."

"Are you just trying to piss me off here, or do you have something _useful _to say?"

"What I'm _saying _is, stop and _think _for once. What do you know about this demon? What is it trying to do? You don't even know its name. Maybe if you took the time to learn about it, you might find something of use to you."

Dean scowled. "So what you're saying is, while the demon is here in Kansas, possibly trying to hurt someone, and while my dad and Caleb might be in trouble, I should waste time and effort finding out what the demon's goddamn _name _is. Yeah, I can see how that would be _useful_."

Missouri's mouth tightened. "Well, I just thought that a lead, _any _lead, might be better than sitting around here doing nothing. But maybe I was wrong." She gripped the arm of the sofa and made to get up.

Dean closed his eyes, his teeth gritted. "Wait." Missouri paused, looking over at him with expectant eyes. He let out a heavy breath. "Where is this guy?"

She smiled like she knew he was going to give in. "I'll get the address."

"Hey." He stopped her before she could leave the room. She turned and looked at him over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised. "How come you can't find this demon? With your…powers, I mean."

"Because it doesn't want me to." She said softly. "Don't you think, if I'd been able to look for it, I would've?"

He shrugged, feeling spiteful. "I don't know, maybe I thought you just didn't want to get involved."

She turned to face him fully, her fists tightening in anger by her sides. She opened her mouth, shut it again a moment later like she was biting back a retort. Dean inwardly smiled. When she did speak, it was calm and measured. "Are you going to be leaving for Wichita today?"

"Yeah, I guess." He nodded. "As soon as me and Sam get the car packed up. It shouldn't take us more than a night to drive down there."

Missouri blinked. "You're taking Sam with you?"

"Well, yeah." He said, the _duh _in his voice obvious. "What else would I do with him?"

"I just thought…oh, never mind. I'll go find Tony's address for you."

Dean knew he should let her go, let her leave the room before he wound himself up even tighter. But some masochistic part of his brain caught hold of his mouth, and he found himself stopping her again. "You thought what?"

"Well, I thought Sam would want to finish his training first, before he tried facing off against a demon as powerful as the one after you boys is."

He barked a laugh. "We're just going to see some guy, aren't we? Not 'facing off' with any demons. We'll be back in a few days."

"If you say so." Missouri said, her voice blunt. "But what if the demon tries to come after him? I can try and put some wards on your car, I suppose, but they'll never be as strong as the wards around this house."

John's unfinished sentence replayed again in Dean's mind; _Sam's not_…

"You think I should leave him here?"

"I think you should do what's best for Sam." Missouri said, a sharp note in her voice. She turned on her heel and sweeping out of the room before Dean had a chance to replay. He drew in a breath, pressing his head into his cupped hands again. A headache was niggling at his temples, and he was reminded of Sam's headaches. His most recent, which ended with blood pouring from his nose.

The last time Sam saw the demon, he started haemorrhaging from the _brain_. Dean had promised himself a long time ago that he'd never let anything hurt Sam so bad as Jim Miller had, not while he was with Dean. But that demon had hurt Sam, and Dean had been powerless to stop it.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted the tang of blood. He had no idea how his father had intended that sentence to end, but Dean could find his own words. Sam's not getting hurt like that again. Sam's not going anywhere that's unsafe.

Sam's not coming with him.

* * *

Sam caught up with Dean as he reached the top of the stairs. "Dean!"

Dean closed his eyes, stopping where he was. Of course Missouri wouldn't keep her mouth shut, let him explain to the kid himself.

Sam caught his arm, spinning Dean around to face him. "Missouri said you're leaving! If you think you're going anywhere without me-"

"Look, Sammy-"

"No! You're not going without me, okay?" Sam looked honest-to-god _terrified_, his eyes wide and unblinking. "Dean, _please_!"

"Sam, I gotta do this, man. This guy Missouri knows, he might be able to help. I can't just sit around-"

"Okay, then I'm coming too." Sam pushed past him, his mouth set in a thin line. Trailing after him into Sam's bedroom, Dean grabbed him by the shoulder, his other hand coming up to cup the kid's face.

"I'm sorry, kiddo. You gotta stay here. You've got to deal with this psychic stuff, and that's got to come first. Look, I'm only gonna be gone a couple days. It won't even be that interesting." Dean said. Sam's hands reached out to fist in the front of his shirt, like the kid was trying to physically stop him from going. It was the first time Sam had let his guard down long enough for Dean to read every emotion in his face, he realised. It made him ache to see it.

"If it's not gonna be a big deal, then why do I have to stay here? It won't kill me to take a couple days out of training."

"Because, Sam." Dean felt exhausted, like he'd been wrung out and awake for days.

"Don't give me that! You can't just _decide _stuff like this without even consulting me!"

The final word was punctuated by a poke to the chest that made Dean sway backwards. Like an electric shock, it lit a sudden burst of anger in him. "What? I thought that was our new _thing_," he spat the word out like it tasted bad, "doing stuff by ourselves. Y'know, keeping each other out of the loop?"

Sam paled. "Dean, I said I was sorry-"

"Yeah, well." He bit his lip, looked away. Margaret had been right, he knew – Sam hadn't intentionally set out to hurt him by not telling him about his dad's call. Starting an argument over it _now _wasn't helping anyone. It might make it easier to leave Sam if they were fighting, but he'd regret it as soon as he was out of sight of the kid. He sighed and sat down heavily on the bed, his irritation deflating. "Look, Sam, I'm not trying to-to _punish _you or anything. But my dad told me to hunt this thing. He _said _I should."

"You didn't hear exactly what he said." Sam took a step into his space, his eyes pleading. "Maybe he was telling you _not _to hunt it."

"I can't take that chance, Sammy. You know that. If the demon's here, going after some other kid or thinking up a way to come after us…" He trailed off, rubbing a hand through the shorn hair at the back of his neck. "I can't just sit by and do nothing. Not if there's a chance to stop it happening." He looked up, meeting Sam's wide-eyed gaze. "I'm not gonna try and kill it by myself, okay? But maybe this guy can, I don't know, find a way to track it down. Find some other way to stop it."

"Don't you think if there was another way, your dad and Caleb would have found it by now?" Sam knelt in front of him and put one hand on his knee, his head upturned like he was receiving Holy Communion. "They've been hunting this demon a lot longer than we have, and so far the only thing they've found that even stands a chance at working is the Colt. Which they have _with _them. If you start trying to track it, maybe it'll…maybe you'll get hurt. I don't want you to get hurt, Dean."

The unshed tears in Sam's eyes made him look unreal, a porcelain doll of a boy. Dean gritted his teeth so hard they ached.

"I can't do nothing, Sam." The words sounded worse than useless even as Dean said them.

"Then I'm coming with you." Sam said, standing. His fists were clenched by his sides, determined, but his face was white and scared. Scared for _Dean_.

It nearly broke his heart to turn away from the kid. "You're not coming." He said, almost lightly. There was silence, and Dean busied himself by picking up his duffle and shoving the few clothes he'd left littered around the room inside it.

He was ready for the anger, the yelling, but when Sam spoke again it was with tightly reined fury that almost physically burned.

"You are _not leaving without me_."

Dean forced a nonchalance into his tone that was so far from what he was feeling it was practically alien. "Yeah, I am. See, you've got to stay here and do your thing, your psychic thing, and I've gotta do mine." He risked a quick grin in the kid's direction, unable to meet his eyes for more than a fraction of a second. "Besides, I'm pretty much useless here as it is. Better if I have something to do. I think Missouri might be ready to beat the crap outta me, and it hasn't even been twenty-four hours yet. Give it another day and she'll be burying my body under those pretty flowers that you like so much, princess."

"Oh, don't you do that." Sam said, and Dean could feel him pressing up behind him. "Don't you pretend this is all fine and dandy, like you're just going out of town for a few days."

Dean shrugged, keeping his back to the kid and his hands busy with balling up odd socks. It didn't surprise him when he was whipped around and bodily thrown into the nearest wall.

Sam's face was tight with anger and barely concealed terror, and those extra inches of height he had on Dean were in full use now he wasn't conscious of hiding them. "Dean, just…" His mouth worked on soundless words, half-thoughts. Dean could see he was out of rational arguments.

Pulling away felt like pulling out his own fingernails, but he forced a calm he didn't feel. "It's gonna be fine, Sam. I'm not gonna do anything stupid, and I'll only be gone a couple of days, tops. If this Tony guy can't find any signs of the demon, I'll work on tracking down dad and Caleb. And we needed to get fresh supplies anyway; we're almost out of ammo for the handguns, and I know you need a new whetstone."

"So this is a shopping trip with a few extras?" Sam's voice was flat but Dean decided to play along anyway.

"Sure." He grinned brightly.

Sam threw up his hands suddenly, spinning on his heel. "_God_, you're…"

Whatever he was apparently provoked an emotion too strong to put into words. Dean watched Sam as he started pacing the room, back and forth in restrained bursts of energy, fierce and angry as a caged animal.

Sometimes Dean could lull himself into thinking Sam was just a kid, just the sweet boy he'd met at Elmstead High, shy and small and inconspicuous to everyone who wasn't Dean. It made him feel selfishly glad because he got to keep this incredible person all to himself, keep every one of those brilliant grins, and it made him feel like the centre of the universe every time Sam looked at him. But then something would happen to remind him of Sam's other side, the hunter that hid under his skin, ready and capable of killing with his bare hands. It sent a shiver down his spine to see _this_ Sam, too powerful to be contained in a tiny room, too strong to be touched.

Dean reached out and touched him anyway.

The hand on his arm seemed to melt all of Sam's anger. He sagged into it, a kid once more, and Dean found himself holding Sam up with an arm looped around his waist.

"Why can't you just stay here if you're only tracking it? You could call Missouri's friend on the phone!"

Dean closed his eyes, briefly pressing his lips to the elegant swell of Sam's cheekbone. "Sam, you know I can't. I can't sit on my ass while the demon might be out there, hurting someone. And besides, you know what it's like, doing research. I have to be focused. And I think if I started pinning shit to Missouri's walls, she really _might _kill me." The gentle humour only made Sam press closer, his face hidden in the curve of Dean's neck.

"I don't want you to go. Please."

"I'll be back as soon as I can, Sam. I promise. I won't be more than a day away from you." Dean wrapped his other arm around Sam's back as he spoke.

Sam's voice was tiny and muffled by Dean's skin. "Only research."

"Only research." Dean echoed. Neither of them acknowledged the blatant lie.

* * *

Sam sat on the front porch of Missouri's house, staring blankly at the patch of yellowing lawn. Dean was packing up the trunk of the car. He couldn't bear to watch.

"Hey, Sam, you mind giving me a hand over here? I think there's about a month's worth of your junk lying around in the back seat." Dean's tone was light, like he was going off on vacation or something. Only Sam could see the shadow behind the false brightness in his eyes, the taut skin around the corners of his mouth as he forced that plastic smile, all for Sam's benefit. Sam heaved himself up to a standing position with an effort.

Missouri had wisely decided to stay inside while Dean got going – Sam wasn't sure what exactly had gone down with the two of them earlier, but he thought it probably wouldn't be a bad thing if they both got a little distance from each other. Of course, he'd rather they got that distance by staying in separate _rooms_, but whatever. It wasn't like he could talk Dean out of this, no matter how much logic he threw at the situation. If there was one thing Sam had learned in all his time with the older man, it was that Dean only applied logic when it was beneficial to _him_.

He made his way to the sidewalk, and the Impala gleaming black as sin in the brilliant sunlight. Dean looked up with a grin as he came to stand beside him, holding out a black trash bag. "Here, hold this. I swear, we gotta start tidying up in here instead of just tossing it all in the back." He bent down into the car, emerging a second later with armfuls of empty plastic bottles and Burger King wrappers and half-eaten candy bars.

"Hey, also, I can't find my bowie knife, you know, the black one? D'ya think it could've got mixed up in your duffle by mistake?" Dean asked, taking the now-full sack of rubbish from him and knotting the end. "'Cause I'm pretty sure I stuffed it in the trunk when we left New Hampshire, but maybe I put it in your duffle thinking it was mine?"

Sam swallowed hard. "Yeah, maybe."

"Can you check? I don't wanna leave without it. I mean, I know I probably won't need it, but still, never hurts to be prepared, right?"

"Yeah. Sure."

Dean flashed a smile his way and turned back to his car, leaving Sam to drag his feet back up to the house. It was stupid, but there was a tiny part of him hoping that if he delayed long enough, Dean would decide not to go, to leave it until tomorrow, or the day after.

"Sam? While you're checking, can you also see if you picked up my green-checked shirt, too? You know, the one you said makes me look like a lumberjack." Sam thought he was probably supposed to laugh at that, remember the good old days or something. But honestly, the whole thing seemed a little too much like something he would see on daytime TV. Dividing up the stuff, going separate ways, it all equalled _leaving_.

Sam bit his lip and walked slower.

* * *

Dean heard footsteps coming up behind him as he was attempting to force a crossbow into the wheel well, and getting ridiculously hot and sweaty doing it. Why they were even carrying a goddamn crossbow around in the first place was a mystery to him; it wasn't like they'd ever used it on a hunt. But Sam had some weird fixation with standing in fields and hitting targets with various projectiles, even though his aim was pretty much perfect already. So the crossbow stayed. Of course. He sighed and gave up, slamming the trunk shut as the footsteps approached him.

"Did you find my-" He began absently, cutting himself off as the unfamiliar-sounding footfalls registered. He glanced back to find Missouri standing on the sidewalk, her arms crossed over her chest and her expression impassive. "Oh. Sorry. Thought you were Sam."

"I assumed as much. I just came out to give you this." She handed him a scrap of paper, a Wichita address neatly printed on one side. "It's Tony's address. He owns a used bookstore, you'll find him there most of the time. I'll call and let him know to expect you in the next day or so."

Dean took it, mumbling a quiet 'thanks'. Missouri seemed to be waiting to see him off, standing with her hands clasped chastely in front of her like a schoolgirl. The silence became awkward after a moment and Dean shuffled on his feet, wishing she would turn away and let him out from under her even gaze.

Sam's reappearance at the door of the house was a relief, and Dean eagerly called out to him. "Hey Sammy. Did you find them?"

Sam stopped at the little white gate fencing off Missouri's front yard, gripping the wood with one hand and staring at it like it held the answers to all his problems. His hair fell forward into his face and Dean's fingers itched to push it back. "I found the bowie knife, but I couldn't find the shirt. You can borrow one of mine though."

He didn't look up as he held out the material; it revealed itself to be a plain blue button-down. Dean remembered this shirt, remembered buying it for Sam in the week after Elmstead and the werewolf. All of the kid's clothes had been left in the wreckage of his car, and he had been living in one pair of jeans and Dean's too-small tee shirts. Sam had been holed up in a motel somewhere, still healing, and Dean had slipped out while he was sleeping and bought him about twenty different button-downs in various sizes, blushing pink when he handed them over to the kid because he was pretty sure none of them were going to fit and then they'd be stuck with twenty useless Walmart shirts. Sam had modelled them all for him, tossing the ones that would do onto the spare bed and striking stupid poses in the ones that were now being used as rags to clean the guns.

Sam's favourite was the blue shirt he was holding out; a little too tight around his shoulders and long on his arms so only his fingertips poked out the ends of his cuffs. Sam wore the thing at least once every week, and it had been washed so many times that the collar was soft and floppy - Dean's own favourite place to absently stroke over while they watched TV on the same motel bed or when Sam fell asleep with his head against Dean's shoulder in the car.

Dean reached out and took the offered shirt, his eyes pricking suddenly. Wrapped up in the material was his bowie knife. "Thanks kiddo."

He stood there for a moment, scrap of paper in one hand and cloth-wrapped bowie knife in the other, feeling like there was something he'd forgotten. Something he should do. But the car was packed up, the streets were quiet after the morning rush, and Missouri and Sam watched him from in front of the gate. Waiting for him to leave. He spun on his heel suddenly, tossed the knife in the front seat and stuck the paper under the passenger side sun visor.

"Well, I guess I'm ready to go then."

"Have a safe journey." Missouri said, smiling at him as if she was glad to see him gone. She turned away after a second, making a pretence at examining her flowerbeds.

Sam took a faltering step towards him, stopping a foot away and glancing to one side. "So, uh…"

"Yeah." Dean bit his lip. How was this supposed to go, saying goodbye to Sam, even if it was only for a few days? How was he supposed to act?

Awkwardly he reached out, hooking a hand behind Sam's neck and drawing him close. "Uh, so look, I'm only gonna be a day away at the most, and you can call me, y'know, whenever. In the middle of the night, if you want."

Sam met his eyes, imploring. "Dean, what the hell are you even planning to do? I don't even know…are you trying to find the demon? Trying to find your dad?"

Dean looked at the floor, his hand hot against Sam's skin. He opened his mouth and shut it again, all his words deserting him. The truth was, _he _didn't know what he was planning on doing. Honestly, he doubted he'd find any signs of the demon, especially if it knew they were after it. But he couldn't just abandon his dad either, ignore his order. "I'm just gonna be doing some research." He said hollowly.

Sam let out a sigh, his shoulders sagging. "Yeah. You'll call? If you need any help?"

"Of course I will." He tugged Sam in, feeling the kid's arms wrap around his waist. The hug went on a beat too long to be friendly, and the quick kiss Dean pressed into the dip of Sam's jaw would have given them away to anyone passing by, but he didn't much care what the neighbours might think right then. Breaking away, he caught Sam's shoulder with one hand, squeezing it tight for a moment before letting his arm drop. "I'll call you when I'm at a motel for the night, okay?"

Sam put on a smile for his benefit. "Sure. Drive safe, okay?"

He grinned back, feeling sick to his stomach. "Always do."

A lingering beat, and Dean turned towards his car, climbing in. He didn't look at Sam, not until he was pulling away from the curb, and then it was only to flash that false grin at the kid, capturing one last image of his face before it was gone. In the rear-view mirror, Sam could have been anyone standing at the side of the road, but Dean kept his eyes trained on the silhouette of his body until a corner took him out of sight.

* * *

"Don't worry about Dean, sweetie. He can take care of himself." Missouri's words were cold comfort as Sam watched the Impala pause at the corner, turn, and disappear like it was never there.

He nodded anyway, his eyes still on the last spot he'd seen the car. "I know."

Missouri touched his shoulder gently, her hand on the same spot Dean's had fallen. She rubbed his shoulder-blade, a repetitive motion that against his will felt reassuring, consoling.

They stood like that for several minutes, staring at the end of the street. Some of Missouri's neighbours called out to her, throwing what Sam would bet were concerned looks his way, if he cared to turn and examine them. But Missouri didn't ask him to move, and he was grateful for that. He wasn't ready yet, Dean might come back.

But Dean wouldn't come back, he knew. Dean was gone, off on his own adventure. Without Sam by his side, and might Dean decide he likes it better that way? Sam shook his head, finally turning away. Missouri's smile was the first thing he focused on.

"Shall we go inside? Margaret's probably done making the iced tea by now, and I think we could both use a glass."

He smiled back, the expression stretching his skin to its limits. "Yeah. I'd like that."

They walked up the small garden path together, Missouri's arm tucked into his. It was only when they were inside, the door latched shut behind them, that Sam felt he could finally breathe again.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense… Betaed by the wonderful Phx :)

Thank you again to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I appreciate all your comments! The next chapter will be up same time next week :)

Chapter 6

Sam sat cross-legged on his bed, trying to meditate with a _scented candle_, of all things. He could imagine Dean's reaction if he saw him now. It would mostly consist of laughing and pointing, along with a few girl-jokes.

God, Sam missed him so much it hurt, and he hadn't even been gone half a day.

Thoughts of Dean weren't helping with the clearing-his-mind thing Missouri told him to practise, but he couldn't bring himself to push them away. His cell phone was on the covers in front of the crossed vee of his legs. Sam picked it up and checked it was fully charged and on the highest ring volume possible. It was working fine, which meant that Dean hadn't tried to call. Sam huffed and tossed it back onto the mattress. The flame of the candle flickered with the violent movement and a droplet of pink wax ran down onto the top of the bedside cabinet it was perched on. Somewhere below him he could hear Missouri talking on the phone in quiet murmurs.

He closed his eyes for a second, determined to focus on the task at hand rather than worry about Dean. Dean could take care of himself.

With a deep breath, he blinked away his worries and fixed his eyes on the tapered flame of the candle. It glowed white-gold in the darkened room, flickering with every soft exhale Sam made and sending cascades of dancing shadowlight across the walls. He let his body relax. The warm smell of white musk and melted wax filled the air around him.

Flutters like moths' wings brushed the edges of his vision, smoky-black. Sam didn't look away from the candle. The tiny fire curled around itself and straightened out again, twisting and writhing like it was trying to escape the wick that tied it down. It was angry, furious at being contained, at being held back from what it could be, what it could do. Sam wondered what would happen if he set it free.

A knock at the door broke Sam's daze and he turned quickly. It seemed like the colour in the room suddenly brightened, like someone had turned a dial up on the world.

"Come in." He called, glancing back at the lit candle. The fury he had seen in it was gone. It was just a candle. He licked the pads of his forefinger and thumb, reaching over to pinch it out.

"Sam, sweetheart, you okay in here?" Missouri stepped in without waiting for a second invitation, her long skirt ruffling. She sat herself down on the bed facing Sam. "How's the meditation going?"

"Fine. Thanks." He looked down at the bedspread by his foot, smoothing it straight in a sudden fit of self-consciousness. He blushed and hated himself for it a little; it was like he didn't know how to act without Dean there.

If Missouri read the thought, she didn't comment on it. "Good. Well, I just came up to check on you, see how you're doing. Dinner's gonna be ready in about half an hour, and then I think Margaret's going to bring over her kids – Kiera had a dance recital tonight, she wanted to show me her routine." She smiled fondly. "Her youngest, Charlie, will probably want you to play toy cars with him."

Sam tried to summon up a smile in response, but it didn't come easily.

* * *

Dean had been driving for nearly four hours when the cramp in his left leg grew too tight to ignore.

He pulled over in a service station that offered little more than a place to fill up on gas and piss by the side of the road. He winced as he climbed out of the car, stamping his leg to try and loosen the knotted muscle. The stiffness told him that a days' rest was nowhere near long enough after his manic all-hours driving spree getting into Lawrence. He bent, rubbing briskly and hoping to god that this wasn't the first sign of old age.

Across the forecourt of the rough gas station, a greasy-looking trucker with a beer belly unzipped his pants and let loose with a stream of piss, seemingly unbothered by Dean's company. Dean turned away slightly anyway, but not before catching the 'like what you see?' expression that appeared on the guy's face. He was torn between revulsion and flat-out giggling, and not for the first time he wished Sam was with him. The kid would have gotten a kick out of the situation and the resulting dirty jokes would have made the rest of the day's journey fly by.

Dean pulled out his cell, checking the time. Sam would probably be sitting down for dinner about now. It would be rude to interrupt, right?

He was pressing speed-dial one before his mind had a chance to catch up with his hand.

"_This is Sam. Leave a message." _Dean's lips thinned as he was put straight through to Sam's laconic voicemail message.

He'd told Sam he was going to call. He bit his lip, redialling and getting the same result; _"This is Sam. Leave a message." _Maybe it was too early, or maybe Sam had turned his phone off for dinner or something. Yeah, nothing to worry about.

He climbed back into the Impala, drove five feet down the sliproad rejoining the main road.

Stopped and reversed back into the gas station to a volley of horns as the trucker tried to manoeuvre his eighteen-wheeler around him.

Missouri's home number was listed as 'Missouri – crazy woman' in his contacts. Dean allowed himself a second to grin at his own genius before pressing dial.

The repetitive beep of the busy signal made him roll his eyes and let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Somehow, he could see Missouri as the kind of woman who enjoyed talking on the phone.

* * *

With just the two of them Sam was acutely aware of himself and his lacking social skills, and it seemed he couldn't go two minutes without stuttering in response to Missouri's polite attempts at conversation. He'd knocked his fork to the floor twice, and almost upended his glass of water over his plate of roast pork and boiled potatoes.

The relief he felt at Margaret's knock on the backdoor was palpable. She sent a polite smile his way, a warm one for Missouri as she stepped in, flanked by a young girl.

The girl looked to be about eight or nine, dressed in a pink ballet outfit complete with starched tutu. She ran straight to the older woman with a shrill cry of " 'Souri!"

Missouri smiled, reaching over to pat her head. "Oh, Kiera honey, don't you look pretty! How was your recital?"

"It was good, I remembered it all and I didn't trip, not once!"

"Well done sweetie!"

Kiera grinned brilliantly at the praise, her curly black hair bouncing in coils about her face. "Mama said I could do my routine for you?"

"You sure can, Sam and I have been looking forward to it all day!" Missouri said.

Kiera looked over at him for the first time at the mention of his name, her grin replaced with a shy expression. Sam shifted uncomfortably, trying to look non-threatening. He wasn't good with kids; not surprising, seeing as he'd never had a chance to talk to one before. Dean would know how to act. Dean liked children and they liked him, always running to hold his hand or show him their crayon drawings in the diners they went to. Their mothers would come chasing after them, admonishing them for running off, and then they'd see Dean's movie-star grin and turn pink and flustered, giggling like they were schoolgirls themselves.

Missouri stood up, taking Kiera's little hand in hers. "C'mon, we'll all go on into the living room and watch. Come on, Charlie, don't you want to see your sister's dance?" She held out her other hand, her smile aimed at someone behind Margaret.

Sam hadn't even noticed the other child, a little boy with the same black curls as his sister, cut close to his head so they sprang up like slinkies. He looked to be around two years old, standing beside Margaret and gripping the side of her loose linen pants in one tiny fist, his wide eyes set on Sam as he sucked industriously on the thumb of the other. He ignored Missouri's outstretched hand.

Margaret stroked a hand through his hair. "Charlie, Missouri asked you a question, baby."

He blinked slowly, his eyes flicking over to the older woman. "Wanna play outside." He mumbled around his thumb.

Margaret let out a short laugh. "But you've been playing outside all day. Now we're going to go and watch Kiera's dance routine."

The corners of his mouth pulled down and he clutched tighter at Margaret's pant leg. Missouri let her hand drop. "Well, let's all go and sit down then."

She led them into the living room, Sam trailing behind feeling like an unwanted afterthought. Charlie kept turning back to stare at him over his shoulder.

Once they were all settled, Missouri let go of Kiera's hand and the little girl bounded to the centre of the room, executing a clumsy curtsey. Apparently she'd gotten over her shyness of Sam in favour of performing for her audience, and she graced everyone with a wide toothy grin.

Humming an off-key version of the Swan Lake song, Kiera danced her way through pirouettes and little jumps, and Sam found himself smiling at the enthusiastic child. At the final bow, he applauded loudly with Missouri and Margaret.

Charlie tugged at his mom's sweater sleeve. "Mama, c'n I go outside now? Please?"

"Oh baby, it's getting dark out now. Can't you play in here?"

"_Outside_. Mama, _outside_."

"You'll get scared alone in the dark, honey." Missouri said, her hand outstretched to brush his hair back. He flinched away, huddling into Margaret's side and sucking so furiously on his thumb that saliva trailed from the corner of his mouth, glistening in the light.

"I'll go sit outside with him." Sam found himself saying. He blushed as everyone's eyes suddenly fixed on him, but ploughed on. "I mean, if no one minds. I'd-I'd like some air, anyway."

Missouri was frowning, but Margaret spoke before she could say anything. "Okay, sure. Charlie, would you like Sam to sit with you?" She cupped his face in both hands. "Maybe he'll even play cars with you, if you ask nicely."

Charlie blinked up at her for a moment, then pushed himself feet-first off the sofa and went for the door without replying. Sam laughed, feeling ill at ease. "I guess it's okay?"

Margaret smiled at him, the first genuinely welcoming sign she'd given him. "Thank you, Sam. He'll probably tire himself out soon anyway, just bring him inside when he does."

Sam nodded, hurrying out in Charlie's wake. Missouri's gaze drilled holes in the back of his neck, but he didn't turn to look.

* * *

"So, you like cars, huh?" Sam said, his voice sounding loud in the darkening garden. Charlie didn't look up; the kid was on his hands and knees in neatly mown grass, a collection of toys spread out in front of him.

Sam waited a beat, then sat himself down on the edge of the paved patio. Charlie's hands paused for a split-second and then carried on arranging the toy cars like he hadn't even noticed anyone else was there. The sound of Kiera laughing echoed out the open back door, high and shrill and almost ghostly. It would have made Sam uneasy, but something about Missouri's house seemed to calm him, brushing down his frayed edges and soothing his mind like a lullaby. Maybe it was the wards; he always felt safer in a new motel room once Dean laid the salt lines and put the knife under their pillow. Or maybe it was just being in a _home _that did it, a place that someone cared about, loved.

Charlie was making _brrm _noises under his breath as he pushed his cars around.

The heady fragrance of gardenias floated through the air, making everything seem slow and simple. If he could just stay here, stay like this forever, no hunting or demons or dad or Dean to worry about, if he could just _stay_, would he? Sam chewed on his lower lip, feeling the flake of dry skin against the tip of his tongue. Maybe that was the wrong question. He wouldn't stay, not while everyone he cared about was out hunting, maybe hurting. Not if he could be there to take some of their pain as his own. But if he could _keep _everyone here, in one place and safe…

His thoughts wandered to Dean, but he stopped them before they could get too far. Dean hadn't called yet, which didn't mean he was in trouble, it just meant he hadn't stopped for the night. He'd call later. He promised. Sam turned his mind away from that subject with effort, searching for another, something that wouldn't make his chest tight with almost-panic.

Instead he found himself thinking about his dad.

Jim Miller, who he hadn't seen or heard from since that night in New Hampshire, when he'd given Sam the Colt and dismissed him from his life. Sam thought about his dad a lot while they were on the road. Wondered whether Jim'd passed through this town or stopped at that gas station or eaten in the diner across the street. Wondered if Jim was in the same state as he was, on the same side of the country. It was stupid, and he never let on to Dean for fear of getting the older man pissed off at old ghosts yet again, but sometimes Sam missed his dad. Sometimes his fingers itched to call the man, to see if maybe they could salvage some kind of relationship out of the wreckage, even if it was just a perfunctory call every now and then to say _I'm alive_, or _I found something you might be able to use on a hunt_. In his most secret dreams, Sam sometimes thought about phone calls to say _happy birthday_, _good luck_, _Merry Christmas. _Those thoughts usually came on the tail of one of Dean's now-expected weekly check-ins with John Winchester, where Dean hung up with a faint pink flush covering his nose and cheekbones and a pleased twitch of his lips.

Sam sighed heavily, letting his head drop on his shoulders. Jim Miller was gone, and Sam doubted he'd ever see the man again. Dean would tell him it was a good thing. Sam would say it was a shame.

"D'you wanna play?" The quiet, hesitant voice made Sam sit up straight with a jerk, his breath catching. His eyes felt suspiciously moist and he blinked quickly.

Charlie was on his knees a few feet away, staring at Sam with wary eyes. He was holding out a toy car in one small dirty hand.

Sam's mouth tugged itself into a small smile. "Uh, okay. I-I don't know how though, you'll have to show me."

Charlie's head cocked like an inquisitive dog. "Everyone knows how to play cars."

Sam couldn't help the blush that rose, or the habitual duck of his head. "Not me. I never played before."

"Not ever?"

"Nope."

The boy pouted, staring at him for a long moment before seemingly making a decision. He crawled over to Sam, the knees of his jeans stained green from the grass. "You can be the red car. I'm the black one. Those are the bad guys," he pointed at the rest of the cars piled messily on one of the paving slabs, "and we gotta stop 'em 'fore they can get out of the house."

Unwillingly, a corner of Sam's mouth turned up in a bitter grin at the explanation. If he'd known 'playing cars' was basically hunting in miniature, it might have eased a few jealous moments in his childhood. "Okay. So is this my car?" He picked up a convertible, examining it. The red paint was chipping away at the sides and around the tiny grill, but the long sweep of the hood was a shiny cherry. It made him think of his long-gone Mustang with a pang.

Charlie directed him, shuffling around to line up the 'bad guy' cars on the edge of the patio.

"So why are we stopping them getting out of the house?" Sam said, scooting along on his butt and feeling slightly ridiculous for a six foot-something guy.

Charlie looked up with an unreadable expression. "'Cause it's bad in there."

Something shivered down Sam's spine at the little boy's tone.

And then Charlie blinked and it was gone. "C'mon, you gotta start over there."

* * *

Dean tossed his cell phone onto the crappy motel breath in a fit of frustrated anger. It bounced off the mattress and onto the floor with a thud.

He couldn't get through to Sam. He'd been trying, pressing call redial so many times his thumb was aching, and every time it just cut through to voicemail. And Missouri's home number seemed to be constantly occupied. It appeared he'd been right about Missouri being a big talker. His earlier amusement at that fact had vanished somewhere between the twentieth and the thirtieth attempt at calling the house.

Dean threw himself down onto the tiny single bed. No spare bed, not this time. No need to pretend he was going to need another when he was on his own.

And he couldn't remember ever feeling quite so alone as he did right now. Not even back in Elmstead. Even back then, he'd always known that he had _someone _to call, that his dad would always pick up if he needed him.

Now it seemed that every person he called was busy doing something else, busy in mortal danger or busy learning psychic tricks Dean couldn't quite comprehend. Dean was about ready to kill the person who decided the invention of voicemail was a good idea. If he had to hear one more impersonal message, one more variation of 'I'm not here right now…'

He'd been on the verge of packing his shit up and hightailing it straight back to Missouri's more than once, but then the thought of his dad's garbled phone message stopped him in his tracks.

He let out a heavy sigh, dropping his head to his hands and digging nails into his temples. It felt as if he was being stretched in two. On one hand, he could go back to Sam, make sure the kid was alright. But the probability was that he was just in the middle of some complex brain-training deal and he'd turned his phone off so he could direct his focus or some shit. His dad was the one that needed help right now. His dad was the one who had called and told Dean to hunt the demon.

But god, he was going to go crazy with worry if Sam didn't _pick up the goddamn phone_.

A flash of inspiration hit suddenly, and he snatched up his laptop, clicking on one of Sam's many useful - if legally questionable - links. A few searches and he had a number for a Margaret Eastham, living in the house next door to Missouri's.

The phone rang, and rang, and Dean was about to say _fuck it _and break some speed records on his way back to Lawrence, when a bleary-sounding woman said; "Hello?"

"Margaret?" It felt like a huge load had fallen off his shoulders. If Margaret was sleeping, then nothing too bad could have happened. Of course, then his mind helpfully provided him with a myriad of bad things that could have happened without Margaret realising it, but he decided to push them aside and focus on the positive for now.

"Yeah." Margaret mumbled.

"This is Dean? Missouri's…houseguest?"

There was a pause. When Margaret spoke again, it sounded like she was all the way awake and not a little pissed off. "What the hell are you doin' calling me? And at four in the morning?"

"I, uh, couldn't get through to Sam on his cell. And I tried calling Missouri's house, but no one answered. I just…wanted to check everything was okay over there."

"I'm still not seeing why you called _me_. At _four _in the _morning_! And how did you even get this number?"

Dean shrugged even though she couldn't see it. "I looked it up. Is everything okay over there? Have you seen Sam at all?"

"You _looked it up_? Where? This is an unlisted number, for Christ's sake! You can't just go invading people's privacy like that!" Her voice was rapidly rising to a yell.

"Hey, you should keep it down, you don't wanna wake your kids up." Dean said, unable to stop the twitch of his lips.

Margaret made an undignified squeaking noise. When she spoke again, it was in a hiss sharp enough to have Dean wincing and holding the phone away from his ear. "I _really _hope you're gonna be away for a good long time, you asshole, because the next time I see you I'm gonna have your _balls_."

"Lookin' forward to it. So, about Sam-"

She huffed loud enough to send a crackle of static down the phone line. "Sam is _fine_. Missouri _is fine_. _Everything _is _fine_."

"Great!" Dean said in a chirpy voice. "That's all I wanted to know. You can go back to bed now. Oh, um, could you pass on a message to Sam for me? Tell him I tried to call his cell, but I kept getting put through to voicemail. I'll try again tomorrow, but if he wants to call me I'll have my cell phone on all day."

"Anything else you'd like while I'm here, at your beck and call?" Margaret said acidly.

"Nope, that's it." Dean said, grinning broadly. "Thanks."

Another huff and the buzz of the dial tone was his only reply. He snapped his cell shut, still grinning like a madman. Margaret might be a bitch, but she was _fun_ to argue with. He couldn't remember the last time he'd come up against a girl who refused to back down and bat her eyelashes at him when he sent a smile her way. He kind of respected her for it.

The smile faded quickly when his mind replayed the message he'd asked her to pass on. _If he wants to call me_…

He'd been sitting here panicking that he couldn't get through to the kid. But why hadn't _Sam_ called _him_?

_

* * *

_

Dean was driving. Sam could feel the hum of the Impala's powerful engine like he was there, sitting in the passenger seat where he belonged. Night had fallen and the stars were out, tiny sparks that reflected off the hood of the car like spits from a fire. Dean was humming to himself, the radio playing quietly and air whispering through a crack in the driver's side window. The brick-and-cement building of Missouri's house couldn't compare to this, the feeling of

belonging _wrapping around Sam's heart when he could reach out and touch Dean's arm, feel the in-out of the other man's breaths. This was home. _

_Sam wanted to reach out, he wanted it more than anything, to feel the clench of Dean's muscles under his palm. _

_But this was a dream, he knew instinctively. His body was far away from Dean's right now, getting further with every mile the Impala ate beneath her tires. Whether or not it was a _true _dream was up for debate, but Sam didn't try too hard to figure it out, not when he needed to see Dean so badly. He knew from hard experience that nothing good could come of his visions. _

_Dean was frowning. Why was he frowning? Sam looked – or tried to look as best he could in a dream he wasn't fully in control of – but there was nothing, no reason for it. Except…_

_A flash of _something_, something on the horizon…_

_And then the dream stuttered around him like a faulty TV, static interrupting the feed until he was blinking through snow. Dean's face blurred, out of focus._

Sam woke up gasping, sweat sticking the bed sheets to his body like a second skin. The room was dark around him, his cell phone clutched tightly in one hand. The low battery light flashed on and off in one corner of the screen.

Dean hadn't called. Sam had been waiting, the cell phone cradled in both hands, since seven in the evening. It had been gone nine when he'd finally given in, pressed the dial button himself and listened to Dean's voicemail message. Listened to it once, twice, thirteen times. He must have finally fallen asleep around one, wearing the clothes he'd been crawling around in the dirt in and still waiting for that call.

He dropped the cell onto the mattress and took a deep breath, his hands shaking like an old man's as he ran them through his damp hair.

It was only when he pushed the covers away to get out of bed that he realised.

Everything in the room was floating three feet above the floor.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense… Betaed by the wonderful Phx :)

Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I'm so glad you guys seem to be liking this so far :) The next chapter will be up same time next week, as always…

Chapter 7

Dean drove.

The Impala's engine grumbled and whined under him like an exhausted horse being spurred onward, faster. The sky was still lightening on the horizon and sleep was still sticky in Dean's eyes, but he only lifted the paper cup of cheap coffee to his mouth for another swig.

It was early; he'd checked out of the scummy motel at five, much to the displeasure of the old woman behind the checkout desk who'd stumbled out from the back room in a grey bathrobe and carpet slippers. But he couldn't wait, hadn't been able to sleep without the second body warming his bed. In a sleep-deprived daze he'd redialled Sam's cell phone at three in the morning, getting the same; _"This is Sam. Leave a message."_ as he'd gotten the other three billion times he'd tried to call. First thing he did when he got back to Missouri's? Make Sam change that damn message.

Of course, he'd have to actually _get_ to where he was going before coming back. His foot pressed harder on the gas and the Impala lurched forward, reliable to the end.

He'd tried his dad's cell again earlier; nothing doing there either. It left him with an odd mix of emotions; punch-a-wall frustration and gut-churning fear, all wrapped in a kind of angry _lovehateworry _that tasted of sour blood. Or that could just be from chewing his lips raw.

This guy better have some damn good information, is all Dean had to say.

* * *

The first thing Sam did on waking was check his cell. No missed calls, no new voicemail messages. Not even a goddamned _text_, not that he really expected Dean to send him a text message. He'd been the unfortunate recipient of Dean's hour-long rant about the impersonality of sending text messages by virtue of being the only person in the room at the time a few weeks after they left Elmstead. It had made him stifle laughter at the time; listening to the older man going on about _waste of money_ and _fuckin' need a decoder to figure out what the hell anyone's tryin' to say, might as well speak in Swahili for all the damn sense it makes_. Of course, it had been prompted by a mix of painkillers and straight-up gin on Dean's side, and Sam had quickly discovered that the older man could argue passionately about any subject under the sun with that particular combination of drugs in his system.

But the happy memory didn't change the fact that Dean hadn't tried to get in contact with him since leaving. Sam's stomach made a sickening swoop downwards, like he'd lurched over the first loop of a rollercoaster.

He climbed out of bed, his head dull and thick. His eyes felt sore and his nose was blocked, and it would be just his luck to be coming down with a head cold right now. There was a box of Kleenex helpfully placed on the dresser, and he stumbled over to grab one.

And then he frowned.

The vase of carnations was gone, and the floorboards in front of the dresser were shiny with moisture. It'd definitely been in place when he'd gone to bed the night before; he'd run fingers over the petals, feeling foolish but wanting to think about Dean, about how the older man had given him a flower from the vase, in his own manly-macho way.

He pulled a tissue from the box, wiping absently at his nose as he looked from side to side, like the vase might be hiding somewhere in the room. The frown deepened as he looked, _noticed_.The dresser appeared to have come away from the wall, leaving a five-inch gap around the back. _Everything _seemed to have moved, shifted slightly in the night. Had Missouri been in here while he was sleeping? But why would she want to move his furniture? And how had he managed to sleep through it?

It was only when he went to throw the used tissue in the trash can that he saw the smashed remains of the vase, the carnations bent and broken. A quiet trickle of fear ran through him, and his nose began to run. He squeezed the tissue tight in one hand, scuffing at his nose with it and holding it up to examine in the light.

The folds were sticky with half-clotted blood.

His breath hitched. The tissue fell from suddenly limp fingers, landing in a puddle of evaporating water.

_Floating. Everything had been floating. A soundless scream that stretched his mouth wide in a parody of a grin, and a loud _smash_… _

Sam turned and ran from the room.

* * *

It was nine in the morning when Dean finally rolled into town. The other inhabitants of the earth appeared to be awake, and for a second he felt the heavy weight of loneliness recede. But none of these people out walking to school or work, getting the morning paper or taking their dogs for a walk, none of them were Sam or his dad. None of them _mattered_, and he was reminded for a second of the reason he gave up hunting back when he was eighteen. His dad's mission to save the world wasn't his; vengeance and blood-thirst and _eye for an eye_ didn't hold any attraction for him. He hunted for his family, the family that were still living and breathing and putting themselves in danger at every chance they got. If Sam and his dad wanted to do that, he'd be right behind them, but only to make sure they were safe.

He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. Right now none of them were safe. Not with that demon out there gunning for them.

He pulled out Missouri's note, scanning the neatly printed writing again. This Tony guy lived across town, and if he skipped the breakfast he'd been planning on picking up, he could be there in an hour.

Dean put his foot down.

* * *

"Sam? Sam, honey, are you okay?" Missouri's voice permeated the haze of white-noise crackling in his ears. Sam blinked, suddenly aware of the hard press of the wall to his back, his arms squeezing his legs to his chest. Missouri's face came into focus, concern written across her features. She was on her knees in the middle of the hallway outside his room, wearing a billowy red blouse and a matching hair-band. _It suits her_, Sam thought absently, _red is definitely her colour_.

She had been speaking for a while before he tuned back into the words. "…know, it's scary at first, but you shouldn't fight it. Otherwise, well, you saw what happened last night. But don't worry, sweetie, your powers are nothing to be scared of. They just…need a firm hand, if you like." She reached out to stroke the hair off his forehead.

"You…you knew? What I…did I…" It felt as if he'd been winded, his breath hard to hold in his chest.

Missouri was regarding him with solemn eyes. "I heard something crash; sounded like someone'd swung a wrecking ball at the side of the house. When I opened your door, you were passed out on your back, and your nose was bleeding. I only noticed the furniture had been moved when I stepped on the broken vase."

"But…but I thought, the visions…"

"The visions are only a part of your power, Sam." She smiled, a tinge of wistfulness around the corners of her mouth. "They're the starting point, true. And usually I would suggest training those first before moving on to anything else. But I see your subconscious is a little impatient to get on to the main show."

Sam blinked, his blood pounding through his body in pulses, so strong that he wouldn't be surprised to see his limb jerking in time. "The main show?"

She nodded. "Sam, what happens when you have a vision? Or after you've used any of your powers, for that matter?"

"I've never…really _used _any of my powers." He frowned, feeling his heart rate begin to slow. Hearing Missouri talk about his freak-show abilities in a rational manner, like she was discussing how to train a puppy, he felt a little more at ease. Not so batshit _terrified_ of himself, what he might do. He clung to the feeling. "Not intentionally, anyway. They only…came out that one time, with the demon. And last night, I guess?"

"But what happened after?"

"I-I get headaches? After the demon, the doctors said something about my brain bleeding; my eyes were bloodshot."

Missouri nodded, like he'd passed a test. "You're fighting against your powers. And it's understandable – I remember being just as scared of my abilities when I was your age. But what you need to accept is that the powers are a _part _of you. You're fighting yourself, and your body is caught in the crossfire." She sighed, dropping her head. "I was hoping…well, let's just say I didn't think it would happen this fast."

"What?" Sam pressed, trying to catch her eyes again. "Hoping what?"

She looked up, her mouth pressed into a thin line. "I was hoping we wouldn't have to do it this way."

* * *

"Dean, I don't know if you're…not getting these messages, or if you're just too busy to talk, or whatever, but…Dean I really need to ta-" The beep cut Sam off before he could finish. He dropped his cell back onto his mattress with a drawn-out sigh.

He could hear Missouri downstairs, cheerfully talking on the phone like nothing was wrong. Like she hadn't just…

Sam bit his lip, pulling his legs into his body and wrapping his arms tight around them like he could absorb into himself until he disappeared. He wanted _Dean_,goddamn it, where the hell was he? He _promised_, he promised he'd only be a phone call away, and although Sam knew what Dean was doing was important, he wished just for a second that he could have been a little more selfish. That he could have demanded that Dean stay with him.

A loud laugh echoed up the stairs, and Sam wanted to clap his hands over his ears to shut it out. His head was throbbing lowly, thick and heavy.

Missouri had said that it would only get worse. That if he didn't allow himself to give in to the power in his mind, eventually his body would break down again, like it had when they faced off with the demon. Was it only a week ago? It seemed like a lifetime had passed since then.

He stared at the furniture in his room, still out of place. He'd _moved it with his mind_. He'd been so desperate to see Dean again, so sick with worry, that the built-up emotion had slipped out while his guard had been down. Or so Missouri said.

"Margaret!" Missouri said somewhere downstairs, the sound carrying.

"Hi, Missouri. I can't stay long, I'm on my way to take the kids to the park, but I just thought I'd stop in and let you know that Dean called me."

Sam was on his feet and running toward the sound of the younger woman's voice before she'd finished speaking. He took the stairs two at a time, skidding on the hardwood floors and bursting into the kitchen on limbs as uncoordinated as a baby giraffe's. "Dean? You heard from Dean?"

Both women looked up in surprise at his noisy entrance. Missouri's face seemed to darken, just a little, but he didn't pay it much attention.

"What did he say? Why hasn't he called me?"

Margaret blinked, probably shocked at the sudden influx of questions. "Uh, he just said he'd been trying to call you, but he kept getting put through to your voicemail. He says he's fine though, and that you should call him."

Sam's mouth fell open, incredulous. Dean said Sam should _call him_? Like he thought Sam's busy schedule had kept him from trying that already?

"Sam? Are you okay, child?" Missouri asked gently, taking a step toward him. Her face was soft with concern.

"Uh, yeah. I'm-I'm fine." He said reflexively. "Uh, I'm just gonna…I've got…stuff to think about, still."

Missouri's lips pursed like she didn't believe him at all. Well, of course she didn't believe him, she _was _a psychic. But he was thankful that she didn't press.

He nodded vaguely at Margaret, wandering from the room in a daze. On impulse, he picked up Missouri's house phone, dialling in the numbers he'd had memorized for the past six months. It didn't even ring; the steady beep of the busy signal told him Dean was…_busy_. Busy doing something Sam knew nothing about. Doing something on his own.

He dropped the phone on the little phone stand in Missouri's entrance hall and turned back toward the stairs, climbing up them with the weary determination of someone trying to scale a mountain.

He had stuff to think about. That was an understatement.

"_These are…something like sedatives. Relaxants." Missouri said as she handed him a small pill bottle. There was no name on the label. "Most psychics wouldn't recommend using them. They can make you…unfocused. But," she chuckled, as if this was in any way funny, "your powers are already unfocused. The stress you're feeling is making it much harder than it should be to get in touch with the right parts of your mind." She met his eyes, sombre now. "I was saving this for a last resort."_

_Sam stared at the innocuous bottle, tiny in his palm. The little white pills inside were no bigger than his pinkie finger nail. "What…what will these do to me?"_

"_They'll hopefully…calm you down. They should stop any more episodes like last night's from happening." She reached over, clasping his wrist in a surprisingly firm grip. "It's your choice, sweetie. I'm not going to make you take anything you don't want to. But I'm worried about you. Your mind is so guarded already – and I can understand why, what with the strength of your power and what you've been through in your life so far. But I'm not going to lie to you, you're at risk of doing some serious damage to yourself, Sam. Maybe even hurting someone else, if your power lashes out and you aren't prepared for it."_

_He closed his eyes, wishing Dean was with him._

But Dean wasn't with him, he told himself firmly. This was something he had to deal with on his own.

The pill bottle sat on his bedside table, a full glass of water next to it.

* * *

The used bookstore Missouri's friend owned was crammed in between a Starbucks and a drugstore. The windows were dark and the only indication that the place was anything other than a disused office front was a tiny wooden sign above the door, spelling out _Used Book _in generic letters. Dean only found the damn place after driving up and down the street several times, cursing loudly all the while.

He parked up on the opposite side of the road, flashing a dark look at the mother-and-pushchair convention apparently taking place on the sidewalk beside his car. As he feared, one of the little brats strapped into a chair decided to reach out and wipe chocolately fingers on the Impala's paint job. He patted the hood consolingly, making a note to treat the car to a wash and wax when he got back to Missouri's.

A tiny bell rang when he stepped into the bookstore, announcing his presence. He paused on the threshold to scan the room, a corner of his mouth curling up. Sam would have _loved _it in here. It was dark and dingy, the air probably filled with mold spores. The books were piled high on wobbly wooden shelves, in no particular order that Dean could see. The shelves themselves reached to the ceiling, and he could just picture the kid sat on the floor in a corner, his nose in a book and another pile beside him.

"C'n I help you?"

The deep voice made him start, not least because he couldn't tell where it came from. He took a hesitant step further, trying to peer around the shelves. "Uh, I'm looking for Tony? Missouri sent me?"

"You're Dean?" The voice sounded closer.

"Yes? Are you Tony?"

"That's me. Just a sec."

Dean stood by the door, shuffling his feet and feeling a little out of his depth. The feeling only intensified when the mysterious Tony finally showed himself, a wide grin on his face and a hand held out for Dean to shake. He hadn't been sure what to expect from a used-bookstore owner, but in his mind he'd seen Tony as a crusty old guy wearing cardigans and glasses, absent-minded and pale from too little sun. So the twenty-something buff guy with a surfer's tan and blond dreadlocks that appeared from between a stack of shelves made him blink, words momentarily deserting him. Tony's grin turned self-deprecating.

"Not who you were expecting, right? I get that a lot." He shrugged, the tight muscles in his arms flexing. He was wearing a white wifebeater and honest-to-god _boardshorts_, like he was just waiting to catch the next wave. Dean was all for freedom of expression, but the surfer-dude look was a little out of place, considering they were in _Kansas_.

"Uh, not really." Dean said, realising the guy was waiting for him to talk. "You…own this place?"

"Yep. Well, inherited it from my grandpa. It was his pride and joy, and when he passed away there was no one left to keep it runnin', 'cept me. Don't think I'm complainin' though, man; you can pick up a hell of a lot more to interest you from a used bookstore than you can in your local Borders, 'specially when you're in our 'line of work.'" He winked conspiratorially, like he was sharing a secret.

Dean flashed a perfunctory grin at him. "Yeah, sure. Look, Missouri said you might be able to help me out."

Tony nodded, his dreadlocks falling around his shoulders. "Oh, sure man. She said you had a demon problem?"

"Yep." Dean said, popping the P at the end of the word. When it seemed Tony wasn't going to elaborate, he prodded again. "So, what do you have?"

Tony pursed his lips. "Hmmm, well, I'd need to know what kind of demon you're dealing with here."

"One with yellow eyes. Powerful. Got a lot of demon-followers. After six-month old children." Dean bit out.

"Cool." Tony's head bobbed as Dean spoke, making him look like one of those nodding dogs people stuck in the back windows of their cars. Mentally Dean rolled his eyes, annoyance swelling in his chest. Missouri sent him here, to _this _guy?

After a few more seconds of watching the guy nodding moronically, Dean snapped. "Do you know anything or not? 'Cause I got a _lot _of better things to do than-"

Tony held up a hand. "Hey, hey. No need to get pissy. I might have something."

"_Might_ have something?"

"Gimme a sec." Before Dean could say anything else, Tony spun on his heel – his _flipflop wearing _heel – and disappeared into the stacks again. Dean scowled and strode in after him.

The place was like a goddamn maze; books perched precariously above him, the shelves wobbling ominously with the force of Dean's booted footsteps. There were dusty boxes and piles of unshelved books on the floor and he kept one eye on his feet, watching for anything that might trip him. He had a brief mental image of the place caving in on him, showering him with Dickens and Shakespeare. Buried alive in literature – probably Sam's chosen way to go. The thought made him grin for a second, before his irritation at Tony and the thought of Sam _dead _wiped the humour from the situation. He hurried his steps; he could make out Tony's dreadlocks in front of him, whipping through the air as the guy rounded corners. The store was a lot bigger than Dean had initially thought – the narrow window space obviously widened behind the other shops on the block. Either that or Dean had just entered another dimension, one created entirely of smelly old hardbacks.

"Hey, dude, you keepin' up here?" Tony's voice called out from somewhere ahead.

"I would be if you were walking like a _regular _person." Dean yelled back, throwing his hands out to his sides even though there was no one to see him. "Christ, where the fuck are you any-"

A fist flew toward his face, so unexpected he didn't have time to raise his own arm in defence. It caught him on the side of his chin, snapping his head back and making his ears ring. He stumbled, tripping over one of those goddamn boxes littering the aisle behind him, and landed hard on his ass. There was no time to catch his breath though; a weight landed in his lap, hands closing around his throat and _squeezing_…

"I was told the mighty Dean Winchester was smarter than this." A voice whispered in his ear, mocking, and Dean opened his eyes to meet Tony's slitted blue ones. Tony smiled, a slow spread of lips unveiling teeth that gleamed white in the tan of his face. "It's a disappointment, but oh well. Just means there's one less of you when yellow-eyes makes his move on Sammy Miller."

Dean choked, his hands scrabbling uselessly at Tony's, trying to pry a gap in the other man's fingers so he could _breathe_. Dots swam in his eyes and he blinked, feeling tears run down his blood-filled cheeks.

Tony turned his head so they were almost cheek-to-cheek, chuckling like the whole situation was a good joke. And then Dean left something warm and wet sliding up his neck, and _oh, nasty, _the guy was _licking _his _face_. "I'll be sure to give Sammy a goodbye kiss from you, Deano." The words caught up with him just as the darkness was beginning to take his vision, sending a surge of adrenaline through his veins like he'd been struck by lightning. He bucked up against Tony's body, trying to throw the man off, but apparently those surfer-boy muscles were good for more than just show. Against that and the strength of the demon that was clearly living inside him, Dean was pretty much helpless. The guy pinned him flat against the floor, knocking the shelf nearest them. Dean could feel a particularly large book digging into his ass, and absently he wondered if he'd have _The Encyclopaedia of Veterinary Medicine, Volume 3_ or something similar engraved on his left butt cheek for the rest of his life. Assuming he lived past the next few minutes, that was.

He felt his fingers begin to lose what was left of their strength, his frantic clawing becoming more of a feeble slapping at demon-Tony's grinning face. His mouth worked soundlessly at the air like he could force it past Tony's iron grip that way.

His thoughts were slipping away from him when something exploded. The last thing he saw were Tony's eyes, the baby-blue swallowed by black.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense… Betaed by the wonderful Phx :)

Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I love hearing what you guys think! The next chapter will be up same time next week…

Chapter 8

The first thing Dean was aware of when he came round; _ow_. The thought was quickly followed up with; _huh, I'm not dead_.

Air whistled painfully through his throat and his back felt like he'd been twisted into a human pretzel. He raised a heavy hand to his neck, dropping it when the effort of moving made his muscles ache. "Sam?"

An amused voice, definitely _not _Sam's, answered. "So, you're awake. Finally. Thought I was gonna have to dunk your head in a bucket of water or somethin'."

Dean opened his eyes with a struggle. He was still in Tony's shop, the stacks of books looming over him like stone guardians. But thankfully someone had moved him to a battered sofa that, while not the most comfortable bed he'd ever had, was far from the worst place he'd slept on. He blinked, watching distractedly as the room reoriented itself around him.

Movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention. The shadows coalesced into a solid shape, coming toward him. Instinctively he tried to raise his fists in defence. The shadow halted in its tracks. "Easy, boy, you've taken a battering there."

"Who the hell are you?" Dean said, his voice coming out breathy and high through his abused throat.

"M'name's Gareth. And who might you be?"

Dean ignored the question. "Gareth who? What are you doing here? And where's…Tony?" He lifted his head from the flat sofa cushion, glancing around cautiously.

"Tony being the guy who was tryin' ta throttle you, I take it? He's…taken care of. You know him?"

"I was after some…information. Heard that Tony might know something about it." Dean said, unsure how much this guy knew, how much he should give away.

"Yeah? You usually deal with demons then?" Gareth spoke bluntly.

Dean closed his eyes, suddenly wishing for nothing more than a comfortable bed. Preferably one with Sam in it. "Didn't realise he was a demon until he started with the choking."

Gareth chuckled lowly. "Thought as much. Well, like I said, he's taken care of."

"Dead?" Dean asked, watching the shadowy form of the other man through slitted eyes.

"Dead." Gareth confirmed. "Or at least, the guy is. Demon's probably tryin' ta crawl its way back outta hell as we speak. Now, how's about you answer my first question? What's your name, son?"

Dean paused, biting his lip. He was completely at this guy's mercy; he doubted he could even throw a punch right now. But the guy _had _saved his life. _To hell with it_, he thought. _I'm already in a fucked-up situation; it can't get much worse. _"My name's Dean. Dean Winchester."

The guy stilled suddenly. "Winchester, you say?"

"Yep." Dean mentally rolled his eyes. Before he'd started hunting again, he'd never realised his dad was such a big name in the hunting world. He'd heard guys twice his dad's age say the name John Winchester with something approaching reverence.

But again this guy surprised him. "Not, by any chance, the Winchester who hunts with Sammy Miller?"

Dean's eyes widened before he could school his features into a bland expression. "Uh, yeah. That'd be me. You, uh, know Sam?"

Gareth laughed this time, a full-out belly laugh. "Well, god_damn_. Been worried about that kid. Ever since he ran out on Jim, no one's had any idea whereabouts he's got to, other than he's travellin' with John Winchester's boy. Coupla hunting prodigies, you two are."

"So you know Jim Miller." Dean said flatly. His jaw clenched tight on the sudden surge of anger that always accompanied mentions of Sam's father.

"Well, not so much anymore." Gareth said, the outline of his body slumping like he'd let out a huge breath of air. "Jim and I, we had a bit of a falling-out, oh, 'bout ten years back now. But that boy of his… I've always tried to keep an eye out for him. Make sure he was okay. Been tough though; Jim wouldn't let me near him. Probably thought I was gonna steal him away while his back was turned."

The honesty in the guy's voice soothed away Dean's anger, and he relaxed back into the sofa cushions. He could recognise a fellow Sam-protector when he saw one. The kid seemed to have that effect on most people; one doe-eyed look from Sam and strangers were ready to put their lives on the line for him. It just made it all the worse that Sam's own father was never one of them.

Gareth kept talking, his voice low like he was lost in a memory. "Sammy prob'ly don't remember me now. Last time I saw him, the boy must've been, what, five, six years old? He was a good kid though, always ready to do what he was told."

Dean snorted without thinking. "Yeah, that's something that hasn't changed."

"So, is he with you then?"

"Uh, no." Dean shook his head, wincing at the twinge of his neck muscles. "He's…staying with a friend, in Lawrence. I'm doing some research down here while he works on…some other stuff."

"Aw, that's a damn shame. Would've been good to see the boy again." Gareth shook his head, the movement caught like a stutter in the shadows that still clung to him. "Well, maybe I can help you find whatever it is you're after here."

Dean shrugged, pushing himself into a sitting position with a stifled grunt. "To be honest, man, I have no clue where to start. I'm pretty much useless at the research side of things. I was told that this Tony guy would be able to help me out, but obviously that ain't gonna happen." He put on a self-deprecating smile, _what can you do_, but inside he was cursing himself. He'd come all this way, leaving Sam _alone_, and now he was just going to go back empty-handed. He couldn't believe it was only just occurring to him _now_ what a waste of time this trip had been.

More worrying; if Tony had been possessed, it meant the yellow-eyed demon knew he was going to be coming to Wichita. There was no way it was a coincidence that the very guy he'd been looking for just happened to have a demon living inside him, especially if demon-Tony's comments during the whole throttling thing were anything to go by. But then, why wasn't yellow-eyes here himself? It would have been easy to take Dean out – he was alone and out of range of anyone who might have helped him.

Except for Gareth.

Dean frowned, glancing over at the dark form. "Hey, how come you were in the neighbourhood, anyway? Just passing by?"

Gareth snorted on a laugh. "Nope. I was called here, told there was a demonic possession. My sources are usually spot-on, seems like this was no exception."

"Who are your sources? 'Cause mine knew nothing about it, and they're pretty reliable too."

Gareth cocked his head to one side. "You accusin' me of something, boy?" He didn't sound pissed; on the contrary, his voice was laden with something like humour. "My sources are my sources. They pick things like this up, pass it on to people who can do somethin' about it. Like me. Would've figured you'd've been grateful for it, considerin'."

"Just wondering if I can trust you." Dean said sharply, tired of the verbal dance already. His throat ached, his head was sore, and his back hurt like a _bitch_; all he wanted was to get back to Sam.

"You can trust me. You can trust me about as much as I can trust you, at least." Gareth said slowly. He was still standing with his back to the meagre light, and it occurred to Dean that he hadn't even seen the guy's face yet.

"Okay, if I can trust you, why don't you come sit down? Chat like civilised people and all that."

"Fine." Gareth took a step forward, then stopped. "But I warn you, you ain't gonna like it."

"Huh?" Dean frowned in confusion.

Gareth's answer was another step forward, a beam of dim light catching one side of his face. Dean's sharp intake of breath made his mouth turn up, no humour in the expression. "Told you."

The entire left side of his face was a knarl of scar tissue, twisted lines drawn in the flesh of his left cheek, crisscrossing over one another like some little kid had gone crazy with the red crayon. His left eye was almost sealed shut, the outer corner pulled down in a straight line toward the corner of his lips. Surprisingly Gareth had his dark hair shorn close to his scalp in a defiant display of the mangled flesh, rather than growing it long and using it to hide the scarring.

"What happened?" Dean asked in a whisper, and immediately wanted to kick himself for his rudeness.

But Gareth only smiled wider, something poisonous in the expression. Dean had a feeling he wouldn't like what was about to be said.

"Jim Miller happened. This is the result of me, tryin' ta look after that boy of his."

* * *

Sam shuffled the cards, feeling the shiny backs slipping through his fingers, one after another. Missouri sat to one side at the kitchen table, watching him expectantly.

He met her eyes, knowing his need for reassurance was written clearly in his face. "Are you sure? I-I don't know if…"

She put her hand on his forearm, gripping lightly. "Sam, I wouldn't have asked you to try this if I didn't think you could handle it. I'm right here; if you need to stop, all you have to do is say."

He nodded, taking a deep breath. His head was aching dully, but the pain was far away, not the deep pulsing it had been earlier. Missouri was right; the pills did help. "Okay, I'll try."

"Good." She wore a small smile. "My next client will be here in a few minutes. Why don't you go and wait in the living room? I'll find some cookies for us."

Sam nodded, trying a smile of his own. It felt a little fuzzy around the edges.

* * *

The client was a middle-aged man; all Sam could remember about him later was an absent-minded smile and soft grey eyes, crow's-feet fanning out from the corners. Missouri introduced him as Richard, a lecturer from the local community college. Unlike Mrs Hopkins, Richard seemed happy to let Sam sit in on his reading, acknowledging him with a nod and a polite smile when Missouri introduced him as her student.

Missouri handed the plate of oatmeal cookies around before they began, making small talk with Richard, who was obviously a regular customer. While she asked about the classes he was teaching this year, his prize-winning roses, his new car, Sam chewed on his cookie. The sweet taste took the edge off Sam's nerves, and he focused on the crunch between his teeth as she laid out the cards.

She glanced over at Sam as she did it. Probably to make sure he was okay, and surprisingly, he was. At least, as okay as he figured he was going to get in this situation. Apparently his choice in taking the pill Missouri offered had been a good one, and he felt stupidly proud of himself. He'd made a decision, without Dean's input. Not that it wouldn't have been _nice _to know what the older man thought, but there was something liberating about being free to make his own mind up.

Dean had always encouraged Sam to talk to him, to offer his own opinions, but the conditioning beaten into him by Jim Miller didn't always make it as simple as Dean thought. Even when he'd been travelling alone, Sam had deferred to his father, following the rules he set out like they were law, and it was almost too easy to slip into the same routine with Dean sometimes.

But _now_, making his own decisions – even if they were about something as insignificant as a tiny white pill – it felt like he actually could be independent. Could survive on his own, should the need arise.

"The first card – the past." Missouri said, startling Sam out of his thoughts. She turned the oversized card over, meeting his eyes briefly as she did it. "The seven of…"

_Sam opens his eyes…did he close them? Sam opens his eyes, sees a young man with sandy-coloured hair and soft grey eyes. He's walking down a corridor. The walls around him are painted a dull beige, broken up by bright posters advertising business studies courses, careers in design and technology, all headed with the words _Stanford U. _The guy Sam's watching stops outside a closed door, raising a hand to knock before pausing for a second and dropping it. He takes a step back, muttering to himself and shaking his head, obviously in the middle of some deep dilemma. Finally he takes a deep breath, straightening his shoulders and opening the door. _

_The scene inside makes Sam blush. It's a classroom, empty except for two people. Two very naked people, sweaty and writhing on top of the teacher's desk. One of them, a pretty young blonde girl, looks up at the sound of the door being opened. Her face pales and she reaches out a hand, but the grey-haired guy on top of her is pinning her down, thrusting away like he doesn't even care about the guy watching them from the hallway. The guy who looks like his world has just been shattered._

_He backs away, a whispered name on his lips; Natalie. _

"…swords. This cards signifies a deceit of some kind in your past. It usually means that in order to move on, you should take a new approach to your problems." Missouri hadn't paused in her speech. Sam blinked as the image of the classroom faded away, frowning. What _was _that?

Richard was nodding like he knew exactly what Missouri was talking about. She smiled and turned over the next card. "This card represents the present. The four of wands, reversed. This card means…"

_Sam's in a kitchen. It's nice, in a plain, masculine sort of way. It kind of reminds him of Dean's old kitchen back at Elmstead, except there are less dirty dishes on the counter tops. The grey-eyed guy is there, and now Sam can recognise him – Richard. He's seeing Richard's…memories? Thoughts? _

_There's no time to consider it though. The sound of a door slamming somewhere in the house makes both Sam and Richard turn as one. _

"_Tammy?" Richard calls, his face lighting up in a smile. "You're early."_

_A girl with long dark hair walks in – Tammy, apparently – her own face warm and smiling. Her eyes never leave Richard's as she walks toward him – _through _Sam – to be gathered up in his arms. "Yeah. I got out of class sooner than I expected."_

_Richard's smile turns dirty. "I hope you did all your homework before you came here. You won't be getting any special treatment from me, just because you're sleeping with the professor."_

_She grins back, wiggling her eyebrows. "Oh, you can feel free to…punish me, if you want, Mr Barnes."_

_If possible, Sam is blushing harder at the tame dirty talk than he did at the two naked people in the last memory. _

"…a lack of stability in you current circumstances." Missouri continued speaking, seemingly oblivious to Sam's bizarre spacing. "It can be positive; for example, maybe your situation at the moment involves taking part in some kind of project at work with like-minded people. At the present it's an enjoyable situation, and everyone is getting something out of it. But I'm afraid once the project is over, each party will go their own way."

Richard nodded wistfully at Missouri's words, like he expected them. Sam coughed, trying to hide his red face behind his hands. Unfortunately this only drew the man's attention to him, his head cocked in a politely quizzical gesture. Sam quickly looked away, trying to think of _anything_ other than Richard Barnes flirting with one of his college students.

Not that _Sam _had any room to talk, but then, he and Dean never engaged in kinky student-teacher games. The thought that Dean would probably enjoy it if they did only made him blush harder.

"Now, the final card represents your future circumstances." Missouri said as she turned the last card over. When Sam looked down at the card he felt his heart begin to pound again. "The death card." Missouri said calmly, sounding like the picture of the armoured skeleton on the white horse was perfectly normal. She caught Sam's eyes just as he began to panic, her own gaze even and reassuring. "Death is nothing to be afraid of. And it isn't meant to be taken literally in a reading, although I'm sure death is in everyone's future at some point." She chuckled, and Sam felt like he could take a breath again.

_As he lets it out, he finds himself in the same kitchen – Richard Barnes' kitchen. Briefly he hopes he isn't about to witness any more sexual escapades. But then he notices; all the surfaces are empty. A drawer by the sink hangs open; it's empty as well. _

_Richard walks into the kitchen, a phone pressed to his ear. He looks older than in life, a few more wrinkles around his eyes, laughter-lines creasing his mouth. He's grinning as he talks to someone on the other end of the phone. _

"_I'll be there in a few days, Julia. I promise, I'm literally all packed up and ready to go now." He laughs, bending to pick up a cardboard box by the doorway. "Well, tell your mom to save some for me. Hell, tell your mom to save some for the _wedding guests_ – I'm hoping our friends won't be going hungry after flying all the way up to Long Island." Richard leans the box against the counter, pausing to glance out of the big window over the sink. "Yeah honey, I love you too. I'll see you in two days. Just remember, two days apart, then we have the rest of our lives together."_

_He's grinning as he hangs up the phone, bright and so happy it makes Sam smile in response. _

"It means the end of an old situation, and the beginning of a fresh one. It's a lucky sign." Missouri said, snapping Sam back to himself.

Richard smiled, nodding to himself and looking at the cards. "Thank you. It's good to know I'll get a new start at some point." He looked up, his eyes crinkling.

Missouri reached over to pat his hand. "Would you like to stay for a longer reading? I can tell you more if you'd like?"

"Oh, that's okay." Richard shook his head slowly. "I think I'd like to keep some surprises for later. But I'll have another of those delicious cookies, if you're offering?"

Sam took a deep breath, feeling lightheaded as he leaned back into the cushions piled up on the armchair he was sitting in. He managed a vague wave as Richard left, but it was only when Missouri came back into the room after seeing the older man out that he was able to focus.

"Was I…were those visions? Was that…" He stuttered, knowing he probably looked like a wide-eyed child. His mind felt muggy and slow, like he'd been sitting out too long in the sun.

Missouri smiled triumphantly at him. "I believe _that_ was progress."

He stared at her, blinking in disbelief. Surely it couldn't be that easy.

Could it?

* * *

Dean shuffled through piles of papers, his jaw set. Bruises ached in a ring around his neck, making him feel like he was wearing a noose that was slowly being tightened.

Apparently Tony hadn't been any less of a pain in the ass, even before he got himself possessed by a demon. His 'filing system' – and Dean was using the term loosely – consisted of every surface in the tiny back office being stacked with sheets of paper, none of which had any particular relevance to the others in the same stack as far as he could tell. Whatever information Tony might have had would be near-impossibly to find. And that was assuming he'd had any to begin with and the whole trip hadn't just been a ploy to lure Dean to Wichita.

Sam's cell was still putting him straight through to voicemail, and he'd listened to the regular _beep beep beep _of the busy tone for Missouri's home number so many times that the sound was still echoing in his ears.

It made sense in hindsight; his dad's cell, Caleb's, Sam's, Missouri's, all mysteriously being out of action, and Tony's word that the yellow-eyed demon apparently knew exactly where they all were. His dad said that the reappearance of the demon was always preceded by electrical failures and faults. John had been assuming it was an accident, an oversight on the demon's part. But what if the son of a bitch knew exactly what happened when it turned up? What if it was a deliberate manipulation, a taunt to any hunters that knew what to look for? And what if it was doing the same thing here, blocking the phone signals somehow so that they were all isolated from one another? Maybe it was trying to draw Dean out, keep him alone and disoriented, easy to pick off.

"Hey, I think I mighta found somethin' here." Gareth's voice echoed through the doorway. Dean pulled a face at the untouched piles of paperwork still to be checked and then stood, glad for the momentary distraction.

Gareth's story earlier was one more thing running through his mind; a distraction he didn't need, probably, but one that he couldn't help dwelling on.

"_He did it with the butt of an automatic," Gareth said, waving a vague hand in the direction of his scarred face. He snorted. "Guess I should be thankful Jim didn't decide to use the other end."_

"_Why?" Dean said, his eyes still glued to the lumpy discoloured skin. Now that Gareth had mentioned it, he could see indents and sharp lines carved there that indicated blunt trauma with a metal object – Dean's professional analysis of the wound. He almost laughed; forget teaching, he should have gone into forensics. "Why did he do it?" _

_Gareth laughed, a bitter sound. "'Cause he thought he owned that boy, by rights of bein' his father. And a piss-poor father he was, at that. Sammy musta been about five at the time. Scrawny little thing, all hands and feet like the runt of the litter. Runnin' about with them big pleadin' eyes, like he thought he could earn a scrap from the table if he did whatever Jim wanted. Bruised to all hell from the times he didn't do it quick enough for Jim's likin'."_

_Dean's chest felt hollow listening to Gareth's words. Telling himself it was over now – that Sam was safe back at Missouri's where no one, especially not Jim Miller, could ever do that to him again – didn't help at all. Because he could all-too-clearly picture it in his head; Sam as the cutest kid ever to exist, his face hidden behind bruises that had no business being on someone that small, that innocent and vulnerable. And Sam _would _have taken it. A child that young, he would've taken it and asked for more if he thought it might make his daddy like him._

"You comin' or what?" Gareth's voice tore him out of the memory, but the vice around Dean's heart stayed put.

"What've you got?"

Gareth looked up as he stepped back into the main store, holding several print-outs in one hand. "Checked that ancient machine over there." He pointed at the beat-up grey computer. "There were a load of searches in the internet history. Hierarchies of hell, fallen angels, that sorta thing. These were on the floor under the table. Sounds like the kind of stuff you might be lookin' for."

Dean frowned, taking the papers and leafing through them. The front page was a Wikipedia article on the Grigori, and his eyes were drawn straight to the two passages that had been highlighted in neon yellow. The first was a bible quote from the Book of Genesis: _'__the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bore children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown.' _

The second was a single line. _Azazel: taught the making of the weapons of war._


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense… Betaed by the wonderful Phx :)

Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I love hearing what you guys think! The next chapter will be up same time next week…

Chapter 9

The sun was setting behind the row of buildings when Dean finally stepped out of the used bookstore, Gareth shutting the door with a heavy slam behind them. Tony's body had been left out back, shoddily concealed behind a dumpster for some poor unsuspecting homeless guy to stumble across during the night. The bullet hole between his eyes wouldn't leave anyone in much doubt as to the probable cause of his death, and the files listing Tony's various money-lending scams left open on the computer in the office should be enough to lay to rest the question of motive.

Dean crossed the street to the Impala, fishing his keys out of his pocket. The papers on the Grigori were clutched firmly in the other hand. Gareth followed, pausing on the sidewalk.

"Well, guess this is 'see-ya-round' then."

Dean looked up in surprise. "You're going?"

"Yeah." Gareth shot a crooked grin his way, shrugging one shoulder. "Got another job, 'bout ten miles north. This was just a stop-off on the way."

"Oh. Okay, then." Dean held out his hand and Gareth took it, shook roughly. "I'll tell Sam I ran into you."

"Yeah, you do that. Pass on my best, all that shit."

"Hey, if you're gonna be in Kansas for a while longer, why don't you stop by the house? We're sticking around, at least for another couple of weeks. I'm sure Sam'll be glad to see you." Dean managed to keep the grimace off his face as he said it, involuntarily picturing two more weeks of Missouri's barely-concealed disapproval.

Gareth glanced to the side, one finger scratching delicately at his scarred eyelid. "Well, I dunno. Been a while, Sammy prob'ly doesn't remember me, like I said."

"You kidding me? Sam's got a memory like a damn elephant. Kid can remember what he had for dinner a year ago to the day." Dean grinned. "And even if he doesn't, it'll give me an excuse to get outta that damn house. Couple of hours shooting the shit in some bar, playing some pool."

Gareth grinned, nodded reluctantly. "Sure, why the hell not. You got my number, Winchester. Gimme a call in a day or two, see where we're at. And," he paused, pursing his lips for a moment, "tell Sammy I'm sorry. 'Bout his dad, and everything that went down back then. I shoulda done more."

Dean frowned. "Hey, don't beat yourself up about it, yeah? He's good now."

"It's good to know. But…can't help but blame myself, y'know?" Gareth gave a rueful nod, his expression bittersweet and distant, like he was lost in memories. "I shoulda took him with me, 'fore ol' Jim got wind of it. Maybe it woulda worked out better, for both of us." He heaved a huge sigh, then shook his head violently as if he was clearing out cobwebs. "But anyhow. It'd be good to see the boy again. I thought about him a lot these years gone. Nice to see him all grown up."

Dean grinned. "Well, he is that, I can tell you. Kid's taller than me now."

Gareth's grin came back, a curve to his lips that wasn't there before. "Can't say I'm surprised. Still got that baby-face though, I'll bet?"

"Yeah." Dean felt suddenly homesick, pangs of _missing _practically bringing tears to his eyes with their intensity. He could see Sam's face, that delighted smile that drew dimples in his cheeks and crinkled his eyes when it was surprised out of him. He shook it off before Gareth could catch it, pulling a grin across his face like a mask. "Looks as innocent as a choir boy."

"That boy always was too damn sweet for his own good." Gareth said, nodding in agreement. "Well, Winchester, was good ta meet you." He slapped Dean on the shoulder, hard enough that he almost stumbled under the weight.

"Yeah. Hey, hopefully catch you soon, right?"

"Right." Gareth echoed, his hand raised in a half-wave, half-salute. His eyes were fixed on some point beyond Dean. "Definitely."

Dean nodded in farewell, climbing into the car. His feet were itching to get going, to get back to Sam. He'd feel a lot better once he was there to see for himself that Sam was okay. Quite honestly, the implications of this Grigori stuff scared the living shit out of him, but he wasn't going to trust anything demon-Tony had left behind until he had a chance to check it out for himself. Or had Sam check it out for him, whatever. The kid was a lot better at the research thing than he was.

Gareth nodded as he pulled out onto the street, and it eased something inside Dean to know that there were others out there that cared about Sam, that would protect him if it came down to it. If Dean wasn't there to do it himself.

As he turned onto the main street, he pulled out his cell phone. Both Sam's cell and Missouri's house phone were being blocked off by the yellow-eyed demon somehow, he was certain of it, but he still had a way to check up on the kid.

The grin that spread across his face was unheeded but welcome. Margaret was going to _hate _him.

* * *

The headache started after dinner, a dull throb behind his eyes that made Sam wince and nearly drop the plate he was drying. Missouri looked at him in concern, the washcloth hanging forgotten in one hand, dripping soapy water all over the kitchen counter.

"You okay, sweetie?"

Sam frowned, turning his head away from the neon strip light above his head. "Yeah, just…headache. Should…shouldn't they have gone, now I'm taking the pills?"

"It might take a bit of adjustment." She smiled gently at him, guiding him to sit in a chair. "Think of it like a pulled muscle. Your mind isn't used to working this way yet, but it'll get easier now you've made that first step forward." She stroked a damp hand through his bangs, brushing them away from his eyes. "You just need to practise stretching out that place in your mind."

They were interrupted by the sudden appearance of Margaret, her face screwed up in a tight scowl. "Your _friend _just called me. _Again_. Apparently I've become his personal messaging service now. He wants me to tell you that he's on his way back."

Sam's breath caught in sudden sharp relief and some of the weight fell from his chest. Dean was coming back. He was okay, and _he was coming back_.

Missouri pursed her lips, standing. "Well, he is tenacious, I'll give him that." She muttered, low enough that Sam barely caught it. To Margaret, she said, "Honey, I'm sorry he's bothering you. I'm sure he's just concerned about Sam."

Margaret sighed, helping herself to a mug of tea from the pot. It seemed to soothe away some of the anger, enough that she flashed a small smile in Sam's direction. "Don't worry about it, it's not your fault, Missouri. And I can understand, I suppose. He just…rubs me the wrong way."

Sam couldn't suppress the grin. "Yeah, I think he has that effect on a lot of people."

"Well, he also asked me to tell you that he's been trying to call you, but there's something wrong with your cell phone? He said not to worry about it though, he'll fix it when he gets here."

"What?" Sam frowned. "But it works fine. I've been using it all week."

Margaret shrugged. "That's all he told me."

Sam pulled a face, wincing when it made his head throb again. That sounded like Dean, all right. It wouldn't occur to him to explain. Sam used to think it was Dean's half-assed way of trying to be mysterious, but after the first two weeks travelling together, he finally realised that it was Dean just being half-assed. It was cute, except in situations like these.

"Um, I think I'm gonna go lie down. My head's hurting." He mumbled, pressing a hand to his forehead. Before anyone could reply he got up and left, wishing Dean would get here _faster_.

* * *

It was late in the evening when Dean steered the Impala into Missouri's street in Lawrence, feeling dirty and exhausted. He'd driven through the night, mentally giving the finger to the speed limits and keeping his foot heavy on the gas. It was like a repetitive chant had taken up in his head, a neverending rhythm to match the growl of the motor and the steady beat of his heart; _Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam_. He had to get back to Sam, had to be there to protect him should the demon come calling.

He blinked away the growing panic at the thought of his dad. One worry at a time. First get to Sam, then find dad. The problem was, there seemed to be a lot more worries behind _that_, all of them queuing up, and he wasn't sure which one to deal with first. The blocked-phonecalls? The Grigori thing? John and Caleb missing? Sam's psychic shit? Demon-Tony and all the questions raised behind _that _little fuck-up? He had a feeling that if he picked the right one then the rest would solve themselves, one way or another, but it was the choosing that was the hard part.

Dean's eyes were sore and grainy with missed sleep. The Impala seemed to glide into the parking spot outside Missouri's house almost by itself – lucky really, because Dean couldn't remember guiding the big car into the small space. He stumbled out onto the sidewalk, pausing at the gate to think about his stuff locked in the trunk, then shrugging it off. He was so close now, almost there.

His hand was on the door handle when it occurred to him that maybe walking straight in like he owned the place would be rude, and might possibly get him kicked right back out on the street again. He couldn't have that, not with Sam somewhere behind this door.

Violent knocking, Dean learned a few seconds later, generated much the same response as walking in uninvited. Although it might've had something to do with Margaret answering the door. Her first remark was something along the lines of; 'who the hell do you think you are, calling me at all hours', but Dean blocked it out.

Unfortunately he found he couldn't do the same with Missouri. She stood in the hallway, seeming to take up all the space, _blocking his_ _way _when he was so nearly there, and he took a deep breath in preparation because something told him she wasn't going to let him past without having heard what she had to say.

"Dean Winchester." Her hands were on her hips, her eyes narrowed. "We expected you back an hour ago. I made dinner."

And whatever Dean had been expecting Missouri to complain about, it wasn't _that_. "What?"

"You should've been back an hour ago. Your chicken-fried steak is getting cold."

Ignoring the way his saliva buds burst into wakefulness at the mention of chicken-fried steak, Dean cocked his head to one side. "I thought you were psychic? Couldn't you tell if I was gonna be late?"

Her lips narrowed into a thin line. "Only if I go lookin', and believe me, one peek in _your_ head was enough for the day. Now, are you gonna come eat this steak or not?"

"Uh, where's Sam?" He asked, trying to peer over Missouri's shoulder into the kitchen behind her.

"Sleeping." She said shortly. "He's had a bad headache since yesterday afternoon."

Margaret made a _tskk_ing noise beside him. "Probably he couldn't sleep through all your phone calls in the middle of the night – oh wait, that was me." She glared at him as she said it. "Maybe next time you go away, you can check that both your phones are working? Or would that be too much trouble for you?"

Dean scowled at her, trying to think up an appropriately witty yet scathing response. But too long driving with too little sleep had apparently muddled his brain, and he ended up settling for a weak; "Yeah, whatever."

Missouri startled him with a soft tired-sounding sigh. When he turned back to her, he saw his own exhaustion reflected in her eyes. "Sam's made some breakthroughs since you've been gone, but it hasn't been easy. I'll let him fill you in when he gets up, but for now, how about you have something to eat and let him rest a while longer? You can talk to him once you're both recovered a little."

Surprised by her soft tone, so at odds with what he'd come to expect from her, he nodded and followed meekly as she led him into the kitchen.

He paused in the doorway, glancing back at Margaret. The younger woman was walking back into the living room; apparently she treated Missouri's home as her own. But it _did _give Dean a chance to have a talk with the older woman. He shoved down his exhaustion, trying to fix a serious expression on his face. "Uh, Tony…wasn't as I expected him to be. Did…did you…"

Missouri turned to face him, her face drawn. "Did I what?"

He lowered his voice. "He was possessed. Did you know?"

She looked as if she'd been slapped, her mouth falling open. "He was… How? Where is he now? What happened?"

"He's, uh…" Dean's eyes fell to the floor. "He didn't make it. Another hunter was in the area, he came in just as…just as Tony made his move."

"Oh, oh my goodness!" Missouri said, her voice high and faint. She stumbled, reaching blindly for a chair. Her other hand fluttered in the air around her face, her eyes wide. "He's…he's dead? But-but I only talked to him a few days ago! I would have known if…when I talked to him, if I couldn't… I knew his grandfather, Michael, he was such a _good _man. I promised I'd look out for Tony, when Michael passed."

Dean swallowed, feeling awkward and guilty. "Look, I'm-I'm really sorry…"

She looked up at him, her eyes filled with unshed tears. Then she blinked, taking a deep breath, and the iron resolve he'd never seen her without was back. "Maybe you should go and wake Sam up now. I think this is something he'd want to hear."

* * *

Dean knocked lightly on the door. There was no answer. He reached for the door knob, paused for a second – what if Sam was in the middle of getting changed or something? And then opened it anyway, shrugging. There wasn't anything Sam had that he hadn't seen before, washed while the kid was half-unconscious, stitched back together after a hunt gone wrong.

On first glance the room was completely empty, and Dean had to bite back the urge to yell at Missouri, on the opposite side of the house or not. He'd gone through enough shit the last few days, all he wanted was to _see Sam_, goddamnit.

And then he heard a muffled moan coming from the bed. The bed sheets moved, falling away to reveal a messy head of hair on one of the pillows.

Dean could have cried. Actually, Dean could have danced a victory lap around the street wearing nothing but his boots, but that would have taken him away from _Sam_, his Sam, the only person in the world who he'd ever felt _actual_,physicalheartache at being separated from. That meant something, something big, but Dean decided to ignore it for the time being and focus on that shaggy dark mop of hair.

He closed the door quietly behind him, Missouri's house rules be damned, and stepped over the rumpled clothes scattered all over the floor to sit on the bed. He frowned for a second; Sam wasn't usually untidy. Hell, Sam was the only seventeen year-old Dean had ever met who got back from thirty-eight hour hunts and then _made the bed_. Before messing it up again by going to sleep in it. But he didn't dwell on it for long, instead reaching out shaky fingers to run through that soft hair.

Sam's entire body twitched, toward Dean or away, he couldn't tell, and then the kid rolled onto his back. Beautiful sleep-smeared eyes blinked up at Dean, dark and heavy.

"…'ean?" Sam mumbled, frowning as the beam of low sunlight hitting him in the face registered.

"Yeah." Dean whispered, unable to stop the huge smile spreading across his face. "Hey, Sammy. How've you been? Your head still hurtin'?"

"…missed you."

"I missed you too, kiddo." He stroked Sam's cheek, gently brushing a lock of hair away from his eyes. The touch felt too _small _somehow, too little, so he bent over to press a lingering kiss to Sam's forehead. Missouri couldn't object to _that_, right?

She'd probably object to Sam's hand hooking around Dean's neck though, guiding him into a proper kiss. Surprisingly, Dean didn't let the thought of her disapproval stop him.

Somehow one kiss became two, became three and four and five, and then Dean was licking into Sam's warm mouth, tasting his sweet sleepy flavour. Sam wrestled his other arm free of the bed sheets and used it to tug Dean's body down until he was laying on top of the younger man, his legs either side of the lump that was Sam's sheet-covered body. Apparently the kid's headache was cured. Sam made a low sound deep in his throat, almost a whine, arching up into Dean as he ate at his mouth, wet and dirty. Dean closed his eyes; let himself go with it for just a second, just a second to properly…_appreciate the moment_. But when he felt the telltale bulge between Sam's legs, barely noticeable under the thick covers but still there all the same, he made himself pull back.

"Sammy, stop."

Sam did whine then, and Dean had to press his eyes shut again at the kid's flushed cheeks and neck, the spit-shine of his lips. "Dean, please…"

"We can't, kiddo. Not like this, not here."

"But I _want _to." And if there was anything Sam could have said to convince Dean, that would have been it, had it not been in the tone of voice a three year-old would use to beg for the last candy bar. On the plus side, it did wonders in killing off his hard-on.

He sat up straight, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "Sammy…"

Sam pouted for a split-second before pushing his body upright. The sheets pooled in his lap, and _of course _the kid wasn't wearing a shirt, miles and miles of smooth toned skin spread out like a buffet inches from Dean's face. He was distracted for a moment, before finding himself with an awkward lapful of unwieldy Sam-limbs as the kid tried to hug him and untangle his own body from the sheets at the same time.

"I'm glad you're back." A lopsided smile appeared on his kiss-swollen lips. "Even if you aren't gonna…you know."

Dean grinned, hugging him tight. "Kiddo, if you can't say it…"

Sam wriggled his way around so he was straddling Dean's legs, wearing nothing but thin boxers and a slit-eyed expression. "I can too say it. Sex. Fucking. Your dick, my ass." His face turned progressively redder with each word.

Dean rolled his eyes, ignoring the way his own dick perked up again. "I had no idea you were such a romantic, Sammy."

Luckily, or possibly _un_luckily depending on how Dean looked at it, at that moment Sam spotted the bruising around his neck. They had darkened over the last few days, clear finger-marks in a sunset of colours. Sam's eyes widened and his hands came up to cup Dean's chin, tilting his head from side to side so he could inspect them.

"What the hell happened?"

"Just got into a disagreement." He rubbed both hands up Sam's bare back, shrugging. "Can we talk about it later? I kinda just, y'know, want to…chill for a minute." He finished lamely.

Sam raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Dean, you've got finger prints _embedded _in your neck, I've spent the last four days worrying about you, hearing what's going on from Missouri's next door neighbour of all people, _and _you're using the word 'chill' in a sentence. Obviously something's wrong. Now stop avoiding and tell me what's going on."

Dean rolled his eyes, wishing just for a second that Sam was the kind of person to let things go. But Sam wouldn't be _Sam _if he didn't stick his nose into everything like an inquisitive puppy, desperate to _know_. He wrapped his arms around the kid's waist, squeezing tight, just for a second before he let them fall away. "Okay, kiddo. We better get downstairs, 'cause Missouri wants to hear this too."

Sam nodded, satisfaction at getting his way replacing some of the worry on his face. "Gimme a second; I gotta find some clean pants." He got up, rummaging through the mess on the floor until he located a pair of fraying jeans, pulling them on and turning back to face Dean.

Dean pretended he hadn't been checking out Sam's ass as he bent over. "So, Missouri said you've been busy too. Predicting the lottery numbers yet? 'Cause that'd be useful."

The remark pulled a smile out of Sam. "Naw, although I did see some kinky stuff in the head of one of Missouri's customers."

"Kinky, huh?" Dean said, waggling his eyebrows. "Anything good?"

Sam blushed to the roots of his hair.

* * *

Missouri was waiting for them in the kitchen. One place was set, a plate holding Dean's chicken-fried steak and assorted vegetables. Sam watched as Dean's eyes grew big, the smile that'd been on his face since the older man woke him stretching even wider. It was kind of hurting his cheeks now. But he couldn't suppress it any more than he could get his eyes to leave Dean for longer than a few seconds, as if the older man might vanish again without Sam watching him at all times.

His happiness was dampened a little when he caught sight of Missouri's face. It looked as if she might have been crying, her eyes red-rimmed and her mouth pinched closed. She looked up as they entered the room, beckoning Dean to the plate of food.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked, sitting down opposite her.

She tried a wobbly smile, reaching over to pat the back of his hand. "Oh nothing sweetie, just me being a silly old woman, remembering things."

Dean paused in his attempt to inhale his steak, glancing around the room. "Where's Margaret gone?"

"I said she should go. I thought we'd better discuss your trip in private." Missouri said. "Have you told Sam what happened?"

Dean looked guiltily down at his plate.

Missouri rolled her eyes. "I take it that's a no, then. You boys, honestly."

Sam looked from one to the other. "What? Is this about the bruises on your neck? What happened?"

Dean met his eyes, all seriousness now. "Turns out that Tony – the guy I went to see – was possessed. He got the jump on me, but it ended up worse for him." His eyes darted to Missouri for a second and then away again. "Another hunter was after him, got there in time to, uh, help me finish him off. Actually, the guy said he knew you when you were a kid, Sam. Name of Gareth, big guy? He got pretty beat up by your dad at one point, he's got scars all over one side of his face."

"Gareth?" Sam frowned, "I don't really remember anyone called Gareth… But what happened with Tony? Is he…"

Dean nodded, pursing his lips. "Yeah, he…didn't make it. I don't know how long the demon had been in him, but I found a load of research by his computer – stuff on the Grigori?"

"The Grigori? Like fallen angels?"

"Do you have it with you?" Missouri broke in, her brow crinkled in thought.

"It's out in the car. I'll get it after-" Dean waved his fork at his half-eaten steak.

Missouri rolled her eyes, and Sam was relieved to see she looked less upset. She spoke with a hint of amusement in her voice. "As long as you have your priorities right, Dean Winchester."

Dean's foot tapped gently against Sam's under the table, making him smile.


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense… Betaed by the wonderful Phx :)

Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, I love hearing what you guys think of the story :) The next update will be same time next week…

Chapter 10

"So, fallen angels." Dean started the conversation, seeing as Sam seemed to be waiting for him to begin. His belly felt pleasantly full, even if his eyes were still drooping. He leaned back, letting his chair rock on two legs. Behind him, Missouri washed up the dinner plates, listening silently to their talk.

Sam picked up the top sheet on the pile of print outs Dean hadd brought back with him from Tony's. "Yeah. Apparently they were exiled from heaven with Lucifer. More specifically, they were said to, uh," he paused, his face paling suddenly, "they, uh…they mated with human women. They produced hybrid children." His eyes met Dean's, wide and shocked. "If…"

Dean leaned forward, bringing his chair back down on all fours with a bump. "Sam, we don't know anything for sure yet. This could all be a load of crap left by the demon to confuse us."

"But, it makes sense! I was born 'cause my dad was possessed when he and my mom…y'know. Did it." Even with the possible revelation of his birth, talking about sex still made Sam blush hotter than the freshly-made cup of tea sat in front of Dean. He took a moment to find it unbelievably adorable.

"Sammy, it says right here," he took the page Sam was holding, pointing to the first paragraph, " 'The Grigori are a group of fallen angels told of in Biblical apocrypha' – whatever that means – 'who mated with mortal women, giving rise to a race of hybrids known as the Nephilim, who are described as _giants_'. _Giants_, Sam. Now, you're pretty tall, I'll give you that, but I wouldn't call you a _giant_." He put the paper down, leaning back in his chair again.

"It's not always a _literal_ interpretation."

"Yeah, well, I don't see you 'pillaging the earth and endangering humanity' either, kiddo." Dean said, rolling his eyes for effect. Truthfully, he had already come to a lot of the same conclusions Sam was, but the kid didn't need that right now. Whether or not Sam was a product of some kind of unholy union of human and fallen angel, he was still the same kid, still _Sam_. Dean had decided back at Stephen's, when the truth had first come out, that Sam was what he was. A sweet, beautiful kid with a heart much purer than Dean's had ever been, whether he'd been made by angels, demons or anything in between. And honestly, Dean was wondering what kind of pillaging a kid who blushed every time he had a dirty thought could do, really.

"What about this Azazel stuff? The guy's highlighted the name." Dean pointed to it.

Sam read out loud, "'Azazel: taught the makings of the weapons of war'."

Dean frowned. He picked up the entire pile of papers, flicking through them. There was more on the Grigori, but over half of the pages were focused on Azazel. "Is this supposed to be our demon, then?"

Sam shrugged, eyes still fixed to the first paper. "I guess so."

"But if he taught people how to make weapons, doesn't that mean his job is kinda already done? I mean, people have more weapons than they know what to do with. _We've _got a stockpile of guns, knives and explosives out in the trunk, and probably every other person in America owns a semi-automatic. Not to mention bombs and nuclear weapons."

Sam met his eyes, and that desperate look was back. That look was the one thinghe _hadn't _missed while he was gone. "What if…what if _I'm _supposed to be the weapon? What if me, and all the other psychic kids…what if we're supposed to-to do something? Our powers are there for a _reason_, Dean. Maybe the demon's plan is to use us to-"

"To what? Destroy the world?" Dean made himself laugh. "Sam, that's ridiculous. You turn away from the window when we drive past _roadkill_."

"I'm a _hunter_, Dean." Sam said, his voice low and insistent. "I _kill things_. It's what I do, what I've been trained to do my entire life."

"So do I, and you don't see me planning the apocalypse, do you?"

Missouri had been quietly stacking plates and putting them in cupboards. Now she came over to the table, putting her small hand over Sam's and squeezing tightly. "Honey, listen to me now. Maybe this information is right." Dean opened his mouth to argue, but she silenced him with a sharp look before turning back to Sam. "Maybeyou are supposed to be this demon's weapon. But it can only _use _you if you let it. If you're not in control."

Sam looked down at the table, his free hand clenching and unclenching on the polished woodgrain. When he spoke, it was with a voice so small Dean would have thought it came from a child. "But I'm not in control. My visions come whenever they want, and…and the other stuff…" He peeked up at Dean from underneath his bangs, his eyes darting to the side before Dean could try for a reassuring look.

Missouri let go of his hand, reaching over to gently cup his cheek, turning his face toward hers. "Sam, no one can use you. Not unless you let them."

Dean watched as Sam took a deep breath, like he was trying to inhale Missouri's words and keep them inside himself.

He squeezed his eyes shut, casting about desperately for something, _anything_, to change the subject. What popped out was; "Uh, the phones."

Mission successful – instead of looking like the world was about to end, Sam appeared to be considering whether or not the choking that had brought up bruises around Dean's throat had also left him brain damaged. Missouri was giving him much the same look.

"Huh?" Sam said, both eyebrows raised.

"The, uh, phones. They didn't work. When I was trying to call you, or call here. I just kept getting put through to your voicemail, Sam."

"The same thing happened to me. Margaret said you thought they were broken, but I was able to call other people." Sam blushed. "I wanted to make sure it was working, 'cause you weren't calling."

"I was, I swear. I left a ton of voicemail messages, but I take it you never got them?" Under the table, Dean's foot found Sam's, his sock-covered toes rubbing against the younger man's ankle bone. "I tried calling the house too, but I kept getting a busy signal. At first I just assumed that someone," he glanced at Missouri, who aimed a pointed look his way, "was using it, but then when it was still engaged at three in the morning…"

"So that's why you were calling Margaret." Sam said. Some of the tension around his mouth lessened, like he'd hoped, but hadn't wanted to believe Dean had been trying to call him. It made Dean want to hug him.

"You think this is something to do with the demon." Missouri broke in, her frown considering.

"Well, it makes sense, kinda. Whenever the demon shows up, there's always some kind of electrical interference. It's one of the ways my dad tracks it."

"So, it's blocking the calls deliberately?" Missouri said. "If that's true, it could be why John hasn't been in contact. And why I can't find him psychically."

Both Dean and Sam turned to look at her. "You've been trying to find him?" Dean asked.

She fixed him with a frown. "Of course I've been trying to find him! John Winchester is one of my oldest friends, you don't think I'd just abandon him, do you?"

Dean shrugged, feeling embarrassed. "Well, I…" The moment was broken when a yawn snuck up on him. Sam smiled, only a tiny twitch of lips but better than nothing.

"Well, I think that's a sign that we all need to get some sleep." Missouri said, businesslike again. When Sam looked like he was going to protest, she fixed him with a raised eyebrow. "That means you too, Sam. Come on, this'll all still be here in the morning. We can figure it out then."

_

* * *

_

Dean's arms were around his waist, fingers idly stroking over the bare skin just above the waistband of his boxers. "Kiddo, if you can't say it…"

_Sam let a slow smile spread across his face, his hand trailing over Dean's shirt-covered pecs, up over his collarbone and around his neck. He could feel Dean's adam's apple jump as the older man swallowed compulsively, his eyes flitting from Sam's face to his chest. Sam rolled his hips against Dean's, pressing their crotches together. He leaned in, his mouth close to Dean's ear, and whispered softly. "I can too say it. Sex. Fucking. Your dick, my ass." He paused, letting his eyes fall closed as Dean's arms tightened around him. "Making love."_

_Dean turned his head at the last two words, catching Sam's eyes. There was something indefinable in Dean's expression, something that darkened to lust when Sam licked his lips, slow and deliberate. Dean lunged forward, capturing Sam's mouth again, chasing his tongue when it darted out to tease. _

_Somehow they were lying on the bed, and Sam blinked, frowning, but Dean was on top of him, kissing him like he was going to die if they stopped. Apparently in that fraction of missed time Dean had removed his shirt too, because Sam's fingers were roaming over acres of bare skin, his own chest was warm with the weight of Dean's pressing it down, crushing him in the best possible way. _

"_Sam, Sam…" Dean was panting into his mouth. Sam arched up against him, one leg hooking around Dean's thigh and bringing them closer together. The rough material of Dean's jeans was just this edge of painful through his thin boxers, but he could feel Dean, could feel the firm bulge that said Dean wanted this just as much as he did. And Dean's hand was slipping down between their bodies…_

_A knock on the door. Sam ignored it, forcing Dean's lips against his._

_Dean responded, biting at his lower lip, his chin, growling deep in his throat. His hand was undoing the top button of his jeans, fingers going for the zipper…_

_The knock came again, more insistent._

"_Sam…" Dean paused, flushed and panting, his hand _right there_. He met Sam's eyes, that indefinable look melting into something Sam had never seen directed at him before, something Sam wanted more than anything in his life. "Sam, I lo-"_

_The door flew open, and Sam's head snapped toward the sound. _

_Dean was gone, vanished in a puff of smoke like a bad magician's trick. Sam ignored the ache his absence brought, because this was a _dream_, goddamnit, the real Dean was just a door away from his sleeping body. So what if it was a fucking awesome dream, the dream to end all dreams?_

_He looked around. He was still sitting in his room in Missouri's house wearing nothing but his boxers, only the sky was bright blue outside and the vase of pink carnations sat undamaged on top of the dresser. Shadows chased each other around like naughty kittens, making strange patterns on the walls and floor. Still dreaming, then._

"_Sam? Sam, can you hear me?" A woman's voice echoed through the open doorway, and Sam frowned. "Sam, you have to listen!"_

_He stood up, walking to the doorway. There was no one outside, nothing out of place. The door to Dean's room was closed, but that was normal. The bathroom door hung half open, a dirty grey towel left piled on the floor to prop it. Sam rolled his eyes; even in his dreams, Dean was a slob. And Missouri's room…_

_Missouri's room was firmly shut, as always, but the doorknob had been replaced. Instead of the brass knob, the same knob the rest of the doors in the house had, there was a shining silver lock. No key, no handle. Just a lock, and Sam moved closer, frowning. There were runes carved into the silver, like nothing he'd ever seen before, and the keyhole…_

"_Sam, answer me!" The voice. Missouri's voice, and coming from behind the door. "Sam, you need to-"_

Sam jerked upright, panting loudly. He was in his bed, _again_, only this time there were no carnations on the dresser, and the voice…

"Sam! Dear lord, child, getting you up in the morning is a chore!" He started, his head snapping around to face the doorway. Missouri stood there, one arm holding a basket of clean laundry and the other hand on his doorknob. She smiled gently at him, her expression softening her words. "I've been calling you for the past five minutes!"

"Oh." Sam blinked, his head feeling like it'd been twisted around and put on backward while he was sleeping. "Sorry."

"That's okay. Just thought you might like some breakfast. It's gone ten o'clock." She looked at him quizzically. "Are you okay, sweetie? You look flushed, is your head hurting again?"

"No, just…weird dream." Sam said, shaking his head.

"Okay, then. Dean's already up. He said something about going to wash his car an hour ago and I haven't seen him since." She rolled her eyes. "Also, I have a customer coming in at twelve, if you wanted to sit in."

Sam nodded vaguely, waiting for her to close the door before pushing himself out of bed. _Weird dream_ was an understatement.

He felt across his bedside cabinet until his fingers closed around the plastic pill bottle, uncapped it and shook one out. They'd more than proved their worth to him, stopping the nosebleeds and the psychically-induced passing out, but he still hesitated a moment before raising the tiny white tablet to his mouth.

He wasn't sure why he hadn't told Dean about the pills last night. Well, that wasn't entirely true. He knew exactly why he hadn't told the older man, and it had everything to do with Dean's protectiveness toward him and his animosity toward Missouri, even if the two of them been getting on pretty well for the time being. Dean would pitch a fit if he knew Missouri was feeding him pills; he'd throw harsh accusations and have Sam packed up in the Impala and halfway to the state border before Sam could say a word in his own defence. The other man still thought of Sam in terms of 'the kid', the one who needed saving from the big bad world. Even though Sam had been introduced not-so-gently to the evils of that world years ago, Dean still didn't _get_ it, not entirely.

Sam swallowed the pill down dry, feeling a strange mix of guilty and defiant as he did it. They helped, and that was that.

He climbed out of bed, pulling on an almost clean tee shirt and yesterday's tattered jeans and made his way to the door. He tucked the half-full pill bottle into the pocket of one of his hoodies, telling himself he wasn't hiding the evidence.

* * *

After driving through the night, fuelled by nothing but bad coffee and steadily growing worry, Dean had expected to be out like a light as soon as his head had hit the pillow. But no, apparently seeing Sam safe and sound wasn't enough to soothe his head. Instead all the other problems had surfaced to fill the space; his dad, demon-Tony, this Grigori shit. He'd tossed and turned, eyes sore but unable to just _stay shut_, and finally he'd given up on sleep and dragged his ass out of bed in time to see the dawn rear its ugly head over Missouri's herb garden.

His arms ached, but he slapped the soapy sponge back on the hood of the Impala, scrubbing until it shone in the morning sunlight.

One thing bothered him more than anything else; how had the demon known he was going to see Tony? The guy was completely unconnected to this business – not even his dad had heard of him. The only link between them was Missouri. And Missouri had been the one to send him on this merry goose-chase in the first place.

Across the road, one of Missouri's neighbours started up a lawn mower with a bang. It made Dean start, sweat dripping in his eyes. When he looked up, the guy waved in his direction and continued wrangling the motor across his small patch of lawn.

How many other demons were out there, watching him? Yellow-eyes knew they were here, had probably known all along. How many of Missouri's neighbours had mysteriously stopped going to church recently?

He wished he could get in contact with his dad. John would be doing all he could to get to them, Dean knew. But if his dad expected him to hunt this demon by himself…

He wasn't leaving Sam alone again. And going after yellow-eyes, even with two of them, was a Bad Idea in capital letters. They didn't have the Colt. They didn't have a chance. Throw in the whole possible fallen-angel thing and it all added up to pretty much the same thing.

They were screwed.

No, the best thing to do right now was to get Sam's psychic stuff under control. If what Tony had managed to find for them was true, then yellow-eyes wanted to use Sam as some kind of demonic weapon. And Dean wasn't going to let that happen, even with the odds so firmly stacked against them. Nothing was getting to Sam, not while he was there to stop it.

"Hey." Sam's voice drew him back to the present, and he pulled his face into a ready smile as he looked up. The kid didn't look much better than Dean imagined he looked; jumpy and tired, black circles ringing his eyes like war paint.

"Hey, kiddo. You get any sleep?"

Sam blushed at that, ducking his head. "Some. Not much. You?"

Dean shrugged, playing it off. "You know me."

"Yeah, I do." Sam smiled shrewdly. "So, you were up all night then?"

Dean couldn't help the wry grin. Absently he reached up to run a hand through his hair, jerking and cursing under his breath when dirty water ran down the back of his neck. "Couldn't sleep for worrying about the car. I swear, a little kid sees this shining example of automobile perfection and it just can't stop itself from wiping dirty hands all over it."

Sam nodded. "Of course. Worrying about the car. That's clearly what kept you up all night."

"Yep." Dean said, his smile fraying a little around the edges. To make Sam drop it, he held out the sponge. "Wanna help me clean it?"

Sam rolled his eyes, but reached out anyway. Their fingers touched for a moment, slippery-wet and warm, and in the middle of suburban hell Dean let his emotions shine through, just long enough for Sam to catch. Sam's face reflected his fears, his hand brushing Dean's wrist as he pulled away. The touch was enough to comfort Dean. They were both scared, but for now they'd be okay.

* * *

Sam noticed Dean's surreptitious glances across the street after a few minutes of quiet work, but he figured some girl was getting dressed in front of her bedroom window or something. Except the only other person Sam could see was some old guy mowing his lawn, and as much of a horndog as Dean could be sometimes, he'd never shown any inclination towards men with beer bellies and receding hairlines before. Sam watched him for a few more minutes, frowning in bemusement. But Dean was definitely staring at the guy with the mower, and finally Sam gave in and asked.

"Dude, why are you checking out the old guy?"

Dean looked downright horrified. "What? I'm not checking anyone out!"

Sam paused in his washing, bracing his forearms on the roof of the Impala and leaning closer to Dean. "Well then, why is a guy mowing the lawn so interesting to you?"

Dean glanced over at the guy one last time before lowering his voice. "Look, I was just thinking, this demon, it knew where I was, what I was doing. Any of these people could be possessed, and short of chanting exorcisms and carrying a spray-bottle of holy water with us everywhere we go, we wouldn't have any idea until they started trying to beat the crap outta us."

"Well, we know demons can't cross Missouri's wards. We're safe inside the house."

"Yeah, I know." Dean shrugged, his mouth flattening into a thin line. "But I'd go fucking insane sitting in that house all day. It'd be like being on house arrest in _hell_."

"I think hell is pretty much its own house arrest, Dean." Sam said, amused despite himself.

Dean let out a long breath, meeting his eyes with a small smile. "I'm just…twitchy, I guess. I'd like to go to the grocery store and not have to worry about demonic possession in the frozen foods aisle, y'know?"

Sam snorted. "I'd like to see you actually _go to _a grocery store, full stop. I think staying here is the first time I've ever seen you eat vegetables before."

"Oh, shut up." Dean said, suddenly very interested in soaping up the wing mirror. "I eat vegetables."

The amusement hung in the air around them for a moment, like they were insulated from the outside world, alone together. It was the only place Sam wanted to be. They worked silently, each on their own side of the car. The rhythm of _soap, wash, wipe _was soothing in its own way, almost a meditation, and the warmth of the clear sunny sky felt good against the back of his neck. But it couldn't last, and too soon Sam found the worries sneaking back up on him.

"So, what do we do now?" Sam said, sloshing a bucket of water over the hood of the Impala. It washed away all the bubbles of soap, leaving a black sheen in its wake.

"I guess we research this Grigori stuff some, find out if there's anything to it. Try and find my dad and Caleb." Dean answered, looking up at him from the other side of the car. Sam met the older man's eyes for a second and then looked away, ostensibly to scrub at a stubborn spot of dirt clinging to the headlight.

'This Grigori stuff', Dean kept calling it, like it was no big deal. And yeah, Sam had slowly come to terms with the demon-blood thing – not _accepted _it, exactly, but it didn't send him running for the hills to think about it anymore – but finding out he was possibly part fallen angel, destined for some mysterious task? It was kind of terrifying. He bit down on the inside of his mouth, fixing his eyes on the glint of sunlight on shiny metal like the brand left on his vision would burn that part of him away if he looked at it long enough.

Of course, that was the moment Dean chose to wring his sponge out over Sam's head, laughing like a madman.

Sam spluttered, his hair stuck to his face. "Oh, you ass." He picked up his own sponge, aiming carelessly and hitting Dean's forehead dead centre.

"Boys will be boys, huh? Even when they're old enough to know better." Margaret's amused voice drew his attention to the next house, where she stood in jeans and a simple tee shirt, leaning on the fence dividing her lawn from Missouri's.

"Hey Margaret." Sam said, shifting on his feet and suddenly feeling like he'd been caught with his pants down. Dean grunted something unintelligible from the other side of the car, retrieving his sponge and setting to work with unnecessary diligence.

"Hi Sam. Dean." She nodded in Dean's direction brusquely, turning back to face Sam with an earnest expression on her face. "I was just coming to ask you if you were busy today, actually. I was going to take the kids to the park, and Charlie would love it if you came along. He couldn't stop talking about you the other night."

Sam grinned, feeling a blush heat his cheeks. It gave him a stupid sense of pride to know he could win over a three year-old. "Hey, yeah, I'd love to. We had fun playing cars." Self-consciously he tried to tuck the wet strands of his bangs behind his ears, as if the invitation would be revoked if he didn't look up to par. And then he remembered Missouri telling him about the customer coming in later. He bit his lip, feeling his face fall. "I just remembered, I can't. Missouri has a customer coming round, I said I'd be there."

But Margaret didn't look disappointed or annoyed like he'd expected. Instead she nodded and smiled like it wasn't a big deal at all. "That's okay, maybe another day instead."

"Yeah." Sam said quietly. It was stupid, feeling so bad about cancelling plans with a three year-old. Sam realised, pathetically, that he wanted Charlie to like him, wanted to be his friend. And it would have been nice, to do something normal for a few hours, distract himself from the seemingly never-ending cycle of doom and gloom.

"Charlie will just have to play cars with one of the other kids at the park instead." Margaret cocked her head, like she could see the distress in Sam's face. "He won't mind."

"Dean could go." And Sam had no idea why _that _came out of his mouth, except both Dean and Charlie liked cars, and Dean got along great with kids. Charlie would love him.

Margaret, on the other hand, looked like he'd suggested Charlie go play with dog shit.

"Dean could go where?" Dean asked, coming up behind him.

"You could go to the park with Margaret and her kids. Charlie wanted someone to play cars with." Sam said, swivelling his head between Dean and Margaret, trying to aim his best imploring look on both at the same time.

Dean pulled a face. "I, uh, don't think that's the best idea you've ever had, kiddo."

"But you love kids."

"Yeah, but Margaret might hurt me." Dean said, leaning in so she couldn't hear. "Besides, we were just saying anyone could be a demon, what makes you so sure the next door neighbours are exceptions?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean, Margaret and her kids have been in and out of Missouri's house like five times a day. I think we'd know if she was a demon. But that doesn't mean she's not in danger of _being _possessed." Sam fixed a puppy-dog expression on Dean. "You'd be protecting them."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, I think a woman like that can hold her own." But his expression took on a serious tone all the same.

At that moment, Kiera and Charlie came barrelling out the front door. Kiera was wearing a princess costume, a plastic tiara balanced precariously on top of her curls. "Momma, we're ready!"

Charlie came to a stop beside Margaret when he saw Sam and Dean, grabbing hold of her pant leg. She knelt down to face him. "Sam can't come today, baby. But he said he'll come next time, okay?"

Sam felt a knot forming in his belly as the little boy's face fell. Before he could stop and think about it, he was grabbing Dean's arm and propelling him forward. "Dean can come though. He likes cars too."

Charlie blinked up at the new person, not saying anything.

Dean sent a narrow-eyed look Sam's way before kneeling down like Margaret. "Hey, you must be Charlie, right? And Kiera. I like your dress."

Kiera smiled shyly, and Sam could almost _see _the little-girl crush growing. She smoothed out her puffy skirt with pink-painted fingernails. "I'm Cinderella. Are you gonna come to the park with us?"

Dean caught Margaret's eyes, and Sam could see the annoyance there. But she nodded once resignedly, and Dean turned back to the children with a wide smile. "Guess I am."

* * *

"You don't have to go. I mean, if you didn't want to." Sam mumbled, watching Dean change his jeans from the doorway of his room. "I didn't mean to make you or anything."

Dean sighed. He could think of a million things he'd rather do than spend the rest of the morning with _Margaret_, of all people. He just knew as soon as her kids were out of earshot, he was going to get verbally abused. It almost made him wish he hadn't called her so many times. Almost.

"It's fine, Sammy. They seem like cool kids. And I guess you have a point." He admitted grudgingly. "They could be in danger. Although what kinda suicidal demon is gonna go after _that _woman, I don't know."

"You could try _not _pissing her off." Sam grinned. "And they are cool kids. Charlie told me he likes your car."

Dean grinned back. "Well, that decides it then. The boy's alright."

The front door bell rang and Sam turned his head. "I think that's Missouri's customer. I better get down there. You sure it's okay that I set you up on a play-date?" His lip twitched as he said it, and Dean reached over to tap him lightly on the side of the head.

"Shut up, you geek. Go practise being psychic."

Sam smiled, giving Dean a dorky little wave before disappearing.

Dean took a deep breath, snatching up his flask of holy water. Time to go play nice with yet another woman who hated him. He felt a pang as he realised that this would be the second time he'd left Sam alone in one week. But it was only an hour, and Sam would be inside the wards the whole time. Nothing could happen, except maybe Dean might miss Sam. He rolled his eyes as he thought it, calling himself a pussy.

Sam had left the door to his bedroom open, and Dean stopped outside. Clothes were still strewn about the floor, an obstacle course laid out between the doorway and the bed. He frowned; messy wasn't Sam's style at all. The kid nagged like an old woman when Dean dropped a pair of _socks_ on the floor, for Christ's sake. It didn't stop him from doing it, but the bitching was one of the things Dean had come to depend on in their otherwise highly unstable lifestyle. But then again, Sam had been under _insane _amounts of stress lately. He couldn't expect the kid to keep up his obsessive neatness habits, especially when he himself was the cause of a lot of that stress. A flush of guilt had him stepping over the threshold to pick up an armful of the clothing. The least he could do was clear the floor a little, make sure the kid didn't trip and break his neck on a dirty pair of boxers.

Something rattled in the pile of clothes, a sound like the clacking of teeth. Dean paused, shaking the clothes experimentally. The _something_ made the same noise again.

He dropped the pile on Sam's bed, feeling stupid and glancing at the door to make sure no one was watching him. _Observing him_, as he searched Sam's pockets like he was a paranoid woman looking for signs of adultery in her husband.

In the pocket of one of Sam's many hoodies, his fingers closed around something rounded and plastic. He pulled it out, biting his tongue.

"Dean! Are you coming?" Margaret's voice called from downstairs. He ignored it, his attention focused on the pill bottle in his hand. The pill bottle that had been _hidden _in Sam'shoody.

"Dean? Mommy wants to know if you're ready yet? She says we're gonna leave without you if you don't move your bottom."

Dean's head came up at the high voice, Kiera's, coming from the doorway. He blushed like he'd been caught stealing. Without thinking, he shoved the pill bottle into his own pocket, aiming a smile that felt like it would crack his face. "Yeah, I'm ready. Let's go."


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense… Betaed by the wonderful Phx :)

Thanks, as always, to everyone who reviewed, I love hearing your comments :) The next chapter will be up same time next week!

Chapter 11

"No, Momma, I want _Dean _to push me!" Kiera said in a shrill voice, grabbing Dean's hand.

Margaretrolled her eyes, waving an exasperated hand in Dean's direction as she seated herself on a wooden bench by the swing set. Charlie immediately fell to the grass beside her, pulling toy cars out from where they'd been stowed away in various pockets. The little boy hadn't spoken a word to Dean on the way, not that Dean had really been in the mood to talk.

It had taken Kiera all of five minutes to get over her shyness around Dean – she'd taken his hand as they entered the park, chattering about pink and rainbows and unicorns, whatever little girls dressed like princesses talked about. Dean couldn't focus on the words.

A _pill bottle_. A pill bottle, half-full and hidden in Sam's clothing.

Of course, it could mean absolutely nothing. The bottle didn't have a label to tell him whose it was, or what it contained. Maybe Missouri dropped it while she was in Sam's room. She obviously went in there to clean; Dean hadn't missed the disappearance of the vase of pink flowers. Or maybe Sam had found it somewhere, picked it up and put it in his pocket and completely forgotten about it.

"Will you push me high?" Kiera asked, both her tiny hands wrapped around Dean's big one. She tugged on it like she was trying to pull him down to her size.

It dragged Dean out of his head for the moment, reminded him that he was here and Sam was not. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Even though the _only _thing he wanted to be doing right now was confronting Sam about the mysterious pills, there was a little girl dressed like a princess who was depending on him to push her on the swings. He could do that.

Kiera kept chatting away happily, ignorant of the dark things lurking in Dean's head. "Mommy can only push me a little, she says I'm too big now and I haveta swing myself. But _princesses _don't swing themselves." She was kind of adorable, and Dean felt an unwilling smile grow as he listened to her talk, resisting the urge to ruffle her hair only because the plastic tiara that was firmly tangled in her curls had some wicked-looking spikes on it.

"Of course not." Dean said, brow creasing in mock outrage. "Princesses have servants to push them on the swings."

She giggled. "You're not my _servant_. You can be the prince. Cinderella gets saved by the prince, 'cause her mean stepsisters make her scrub the floors and wear dirty clothes. They don't know that Cinderella's s'posed to be the _princess _and they have to do what she says."

Dean nodded seriously. "Okay, well, if I see any mean stepsisters I'll make sure they know you're the princess."

"Good." She nodded firmly. "Now can you push me? I wanna go _really _high."

"Okay, but not too high. I think your mommy might be mad if you fell off and got your dress dirty."

Margaret, overhearing, rolled her eyes again. "Mommy might be even madder if she fell off and hit her head on the concrete." She said pointedly.

Kiera tugged on Dean's hand, throwing all her weight behind it. "Come _on_, I wanna go on the swings!"

"Okay, okay, swings it is." Dean said, letting the little girl drag him toward the concreted area.

He waited for Kiera to climb onto one of the rubber swing seats, pushing her gently to start the rocking. She giggled, kicking her legs back and forth. "Higher! Higher Dean!" He pushed her a little harder, kind of worried that he might end up pushing her _off _the swing.

He remembered his dad taking him to the park once. He'd been about seven years old, and it had taken two solid hours of begging to get his dad to agree to walk him across the road from the motel. The park hadn't been much; a few trees and a scrubby patch of dying grass, but there'd been a couple of swings and a slide set in the middle, apparently a favourite haunt of the kids in town if the graffiti and candy wrappers littered around the place were anything to go by. Dean had practically skipped over to the swings, jumping on the nearest and looking around for John to push him.

Except John had settled himself on a nearby wall with his journal and a stack of papers. The only acknowledgement Dean got was a periodic glance to check he was still there. It had been a small town, and the other kids at the playground had looked at him funny, their moms holding their hands and keeping them from getting too close to the stranger in the dirty, too-small clothes.

Five minutes later, Dean quietly told his dad he'd had enough, and the rest of the day had been spent in the motel room watching old episodes of Star Trek by himself.

* * *

Sam watched from behind Missouri's curtains as Dean disappeared around the corner, holding Kiera's hand. Margaret walked on his other side, Charlie in her arms and a large canvas bag thrown over one shoulder. They looked like any other family going out for a day at the park.

"Sam, would you like some tea?" Missouri's voice drew him away from the picturesque scene in front of him. He turned back, seeing her in the doorway to the living room.

"Uh, no, thanks."

She stepped toward him, a look of concern on her face. "Honey, what's wrong?"

Sam looked down at his feet. "It's nothing. Just, checking the weather was good. Dean's gone to the park with Margaret."

Her face lightened a little. "Well, I'm glad to hear they've made up." She shook her head fondly. "Margaret won't admit it, but she needs a friend."

"Aren't you her friend?" Sam asked, cocking his head.

"Of course." She smiled. It looked plastic around the edges. "But you can never have too many friends, Sam Miller. And once they settle their differences, I think Dean and Margaret will find they have a lot in common." She snorted, and her voice sounded genuine again. "Stubbornness, for one thing."

"Oh." Sam bit the corner of his lip, feeling his chest ache at her words. It was stupid, though. Stupid, because Dean didn't want to be a regular guy. He didn't want a wife, kids, a family. Did he?

Missouri's face softened, and he wondered if she'd caught the passing thought. "You can go with them if you want. The park's just up the street."

He glanced over at the window, as if Dean might reappear, smiling and holding a little girl's hand. "No. I better stay." He turned back to face Missouri, pulling together his resolve to weaken that ache around his heart. "I need to get my powers under control. That's the most important thing."

* * *

"Mommy, look at me!" Kiera called, trying to wave and hold on to the chain-link at the same time. Margaret looked up from across the park, waving before going back to helping Charlie lay out his toy cars.

Pushing the little girl back and forth was strangely relaxing, once Dean got over the fear that he might break her somehow. The rhythmic motion meant he didn't have to _think_, could just rock with the swing's movement, pushing and stepping back, pushing and stepping back.Kiera's curly hair billowed out behind her as she flew through the air, rippling like the waves in the wake of a boat.

"You havin' fun there, honey?" He called, surprised to find he was slightly out of breath.

She giggled in response, throwing her legs in the air and her head back as the swing reached the crest of its motion. Dean's breath caught, his heart stopping for a second, sure she was about to drop right off the seat in the pause before the swing came back down. But she stayed in place, laughing and oblivious to the near-heart attack she'd just caused. Dean caught the chain, slowing the swing down. "I, uh, think that's enough swinging for now."

"Aww, Dean!" She pouted at him, wriggling back and forth in a vain attempt to get the swing going again.

"Let's go sit with your mom and Charlie for a while, huh? Unless you wanna play by yourself for a bit?"

She chewed her bottom lip, obviously torn between using the other play areas and staying with Dean. Finally she let out a dramatic-sounding sigh. "O_kay_. But you have to push me on the roundabout after."

She grabbed his hand proprietarily as they started to walk back. Dean wasn't able to hold back the grin – apparently cute kids were his weakness. "Deal."

Margaret looked up with a smirk as they approached. "Now you understand why I don't push her high on the swing. I don't need a heart attack before I reach twenty-five."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "You're not twenty-five yet?"

"No. My birthday's in three months." She jutted her chin out, daring him to comment.

"Oh." Dean knew when the odds were against him; he chose to sit down quietly instead. Kiera seemed to have forgotten her royal bearing, on her hands and knees in the dirt with her younger brother, crawling around and getting green grass stains all over the pink puffy skirt.

"Kiera's five, if you were wondering." Margaret suddenly started talking again, her voice sharp and blindly accusing, like she wanted to get her hits in now before Dean could start. "I was nineteen when I had her."

Dean held both hands up, shrugging his shoulders easily. "Wasn't wondering a thing."

She snorted loudly. "Right. Of course not. Who are you to judge?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean's head snapped to face her.

"Well, you and your friend back at Missouri's. I get the impression 'friend' isn't quite the right word for it? How old is he again?"

Dean sucked in a breath, his fists clenching. "Shut the hell up, _now_." He said, his voice low and even. "You talk about him again and I swear, your kids here or not, I _will _hit you."

There was silence for a long moment, only the birds singing in the trees, the distant sound of the cars driving past on the road across the green stretch of grass. Kiera berated her brother for something; "No, not like _that_, you've gotta have this one over _here_," and then she glanced up, her mouth shutting with an audible click like she could feel the tension in the air.

Margaret sighed, loud and long, her entire body sagging forward on the wooden bench. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

Dean nodded tersely, not trusting himself to speak.

"Really, Dean." She reached over, her hand hovering over his where it lay on his thigh, gripping the material of his jeans so tightly the knuckles were white. She didn't touch though; he really might have hit her if she'd tried. "I _am _sorry. I'm just," she paused, biting the inside of her mouth and looking close to tears suddenly, "it's hard. And everyone said…they said we were too young, and that I'd end up alone, raising the kids. But I didn't listen." She hunched over, clutching her bag to her stomach. Her shoulders shook ever so slightly.

"It's okay." Dean spoke, stiffly, before he knew he was going to.

Margaret stayed in the same position for a second, her hair covering her face. When she finally sat up straight, her eyes were red but no tears wet her cheeks. She wore an expression Dean could relate to; obstinacy and determination. He remembered seeing her after that first night at Missouri's, crying about the father of her children and the bills she couldn't pay.

"What happened?"

She shook her hair back, looking him directly in the eye. "I met a guy. Thought he was the one for me. When I got pregnant with Kiera, my parents told me I should be married, so we got married. I was at school at the time, training to be a teacher." She laughed bitterly. "I loved kids. I thought, what better career could there be, educating children, moulding young minds, all that shit." She lowered her voice as she spoke the last word, glancing over to make sure Kiera and Charlie were still involved in their game. "I had to drop out when I got pregnant though. We stayed together for three years, which was pretty good for a young couple in those days. But when I was pregnant with Charlie, he told me he was leaving. Apparently our children were getting in the way of _his_ life. He took half our savings and wentbackpacking around Australia, and I went crawling back to my parents, begging for a place to live."

Dean bit his lip, trying to suppress the urge to wriggle uncomfortably on the bench. He wasn't good with this sharing and caring crap; he wished Sam was here in his place. The pill bottle poked him through his jeans pockets, reminding him of its presence.

Margaret kept talking, like now she'd started she wasn't going to be stopped, not for anything. "A year ago, I got a phone call from my ex. _He _has a nice new job, a college degree and a live-in girlfriend who apparently just _loves _children. He drives a Mercedes now, while I barely have the money to get the bus. He said he wanted joint-custody of the kids, now he was done _finding himself_, or whatever the hell he left me to do. I said no, so he called in the lawyers to prove I'm an unfit mother." She let out an enormous sigh when she finished talking.

"Oh." Dean said, feeling like an idiot. "I'm…sorry?"

She shot him an unimpressed look. "I wasn't asking for your sympathy, you ass. I just," she threw her hands up in the air, looking frustrated. "No one _listens _when I try to tell them this stuff. Not even Missouri, and she used to be…we used to be really close."

Dean frowned. "Used to be? You're not anymore?"

"Not really." She shrugged. "I don't…feel like she's really listening when I talk, anymore. I can't really blame her, I suppose, I guess I must go on about this a lot."

"Yeah, but…she's your friend. Isn't that what friends are s'posed to do; listen and be supportive and all that crap?"

She looked at him sidelong. "You sound like you're not sure. Don't guys talk about their problems?"

"I dunno." Dean grinned to hide his awkwardness. "Never really had a proper guy friend before. Until Sam, I mean."

"Huh." Margaret didn't look all that surprised.

Dean chewed on his lower lip. "Uh, since we're sharing, or whatever, do you, uh… Do you know if Missouri takes any medication? Like, pills?"

She looked at him with her eyebrows raised. "Why?"

He turned his head away, staring hard at a man entering the park, his hand clutching the arm of a young girl. She wriggled like a fish, her eyes set on the brightly painted jungle gym. He could just make out a snatch of conversation drifting over on the wind; _"Wait a second, sweetheart, your shoelaces are untied…"_

"I found some. Pills, I mean." Margaret didn't say anything, and Dean took a deep breath. "They were in Sam's room. I guess… I was hoping they were Missouri's, and she'd just dropped them or something." He pulled out the plastic bottle, holding them out so she could see.

Margaret gently took it from his hand, rolling it about. There was a frown creasing her forehead. "I don't know. I've never _seen _her take anything, but that doesn't mean they're not hers. Why, do you think Sam's…_on _something?" She shot a glance at Charlie, and Dean could practically _feel _her worry for her child.

"No!" It was out before he could think it through.

She looked at him strangely. "So…you don't think he's taking the pills, but you're going to blame him for it anyway?"

"No, I didn't mean-" Dean cut himself off, leaning forward with his head in his hands. "I don't know what I mean. But Sam, I know he wouldn't take anything unless…"

"Unless what? Unless he ran it by you first?" Margaret sighed. "Dean, I can't say I know Sam particularly well, but he doesn't seem like the kind of guy to do anything without thinking it through. I don't know whose pills these are, maybe they're Sam's, maybe they're Missouri's, hell, maybe they're _vitamins_, but I wouldn't go jumping to conclusions and making accusations until you _know for sure_."

Dean met her eyes, seeing the tentative smile on her face. "Yeah. You're right." He let out a loud breath, running a hand through his hair before looking at her seriously. "Does this mean we're gal-pals now? Will you braid my hair?"

She punched him in the arm.

* * *

Missouri's latest customer was a pretty, nervous-looking woman in her thirties, clutching her tiny handbag like it was a lifeline. She introduced herself to Sam with a weak handshake and a smile that only partially disguised a wet sniffle.

Missouri stuck a warm cup of tea under her nose without being asked, and she took it gratefully.

"Now, Lucy, what did you come here to find out?" Missouri asked, like she didn't already know.

Lucy met her eyes for a second and then looked down at her lap. "Uh, my-my boyfriend. He's always late home from work, and he…he doesn't pay me any attention anymore. And I've…been looking through his briefcase. I think he's mixed up in something bad at work. I-I need to know."

Missouri nodded, her lips firmly pressed together in a show of sympathy. "I'll get out the cards."

She stood and walked to the dresser where the cards were kept. Sam watched her, his own unasked-for cup of tea held loosely in one hand. Before she could even touch the handle of the drawer, Sam's head started to throb. He frowned, pressing the fingers of his free hand to his temples.

"Sam? Are you okay, honey?" He could hear Missouri's words as if she was talking to him from the other end of a wind channel.

"I…" He screwed his eyes up tight.

"_Sam! Sam, listen to me!" Missouri calls again. "I need you to-"_

_Her voice is cut off by the image of a man, brown hair flicked with grey, wearing a charcoal suit and looking furtively around as he opens the door to a room. At first Sam thinks it's a motel room – there's a keycard slot at the handle, and the cheap-looking brown carpet is similar to thousands of carpets in thousands of motels across the country. _

_But then the vision expands to take in a desk, bulky grey computer sitting on the top and a pile of paperwork stacked neatly in a wire tray by the side. There's a phone beside it, a business card tacked to the handset – Mitchell and Co. Accounting._

_The door is opened from the other side, and a brunette woman wearing the typical secretary uniform of crisp white shirt and black skirt meets the man. She smiles, her tongue flirting with her upper lip. "Lucy called for you. Again. When are you gonna leave her, Steven?"_

_Steven doesn't bother to answer, instead grabbing the girl around the waist and kissing her deeply as he walks them into the room. _

_Flash. Sam's in a new room, this one made of shiny glass surfaces and white sofas and modern art. Steven, Lucy's boyfriend and the secretary's fuck-buddy, is standing in the centre of the room. The secretary is sitting on the sofa, her arms around herself and her knees pressed tightly together. There's another man standing between them, pointing a gun at Steven's chest. _

"_Sam! Sam, this isn't _real-_" Missouri's voice is cut off by the image of Steven, sprawled across a glass coffee table, a hole in his chest that wasn't there before._

"_Sam, you've got to _listen _to me, please-"_

_And that thing in his head flexes like a snake wrapped around his brain, making his eyes feel like they're bulging out of their sockets._

_He can see Dean, Dean sat on a bench in a park, Margaret by his side. The two of them are laughing together while Kiera and Charlie play in the long grass in front of them. Dean reaches out, brushes something off of Margaret's cheek. She ducks her head like she's embarrassed, but she's smiling too. Dean's eyes never leave her face. _

_Dean's eyes are on Sam, stretched wide. It's dark around them, an alleyway, and the moon is a hollow circle in the sky high above. Tears are coursing down Dean's cheeks unheeded, and _that _makes Sam think about Missouri's voice, the voice telling him it isn't real. Because Dean doesn't cry, ever. There's a dark shape behind Dean, a bundle that Sam only identifies as a man when he looks closely. The guy's unconscious, his nose bloody, and Dean's holding a gun in one hand. _

_From somewhere distant, he thinks he hears the personalised ringtone of Dean's phone, a tinny version of Aerosmith's 'Walk This Way' – the original, not the Run-D.M.C. remix, because Dean hates that… Dean answers, and Sam can hear a gruff male voice on the other end; "Hey, Dean. I'm passin' through-"_

"_Samuel Miller, will you _listen _to me!" Missouri yells, her voice sharper and more urgent than he's ever heard her before. _

_He opens his eyes, and he sees her standing over him as Dean was a few seconds ago, only he's on his back in the armchair in her living room, and Lucy is sitting on the sofa staring at him, her hands gripping the cushions either side of her. He looks at Missouri, and something crawls across her face, under her skin, a ripple of dark…_

Sam gasped, a huge breath that made his back arch up off the armchair. The cup of tea is on its side on the floor, the brown liquid seeping into the carpet. Missouri's hands were clutching his upper arms, her nails digging into the flesh painfully. "Sam! Sam, talk to me! C'mon honey, talk to me!"

He blinked, and his brain seemed to settle back into the curve of his skull. Strangely, there was no headache, no lingering after-effects like with his previous visions. He brought a hand to his face; no nosebleed either. "What…"

"It's okay, it's okay…" Missouri said, her voice breathy like she'd been shouting. "Just sit back, you just had an…unusually _intense _vision."

"Uh, I can come back later…" Lucy said, pushing herself to her feet. Her eyes were set on Sam, like she was afraid he might leap up and attack her if she wasn't watching.

"Is your boyfriend called Steven? He works at Mitchell and Company Accounting?" Sam said, ignoring Missouri's restraining hand.

Lucy's face blanched. "Yes? How did you-"

"He's sleeping with a secretary there, a brunette woman? Tell him-you have to tell him he's being set up. She's working for someone, and they're gonna shoot him."

"Sam…" Missouri said, her hand pressing against the centre of his chest. Her eyes flicked over to where Lucy was standing, but after a tiny gasp, the younger woman had run from the room.

"Missouri, you have to tell her!" He strained against her arm, but apparently his energy had been sapped along with the vision and he couldn't push her off. "The guy's gonna-"

"_Sam_, listen to me!" Missouri said sharply, her face pulled into lines that hadn't been there before. "I saw what you saw, honey."

His body went lax at her words, like she'd drained the last of his adrenaline reserves away. "You-you said…"

"I said it wasn't real. And it wasn't, not all of it. I think the demon's close. It's trying to get to you with false visions." Her hand slipped away, coming to rest on his forearm. He didn't try to get up. "You can't believe everything it sent you."

"But the visions have all come true! What if you're wrong? What if that woman's boyfriend dies?"

Missouri pressed her lips together until they formed a thin white line, a mixture of frustration and sympathy on her face.

The sound of the front door slamming broke their staring matches. A second later, Dean strode into view, his cell phone in one hand. He didn't seem to notice the undercurrents of panic surrounding Sam and Missouri. Instead he shot a grin at Sam that wavered at the end, and nodded politely in Missouri's direction. "Hey, guess what? That Gareth guy called me up, said he's passing through town tomorrow night."


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense… Betaed by the wonderful Phx :)

Thank you to everyone who took the time to review, I'm really enjoying hearing what you guys think of this :) Next chapter will be up same time next week…

Chapter 12

Dean was leaning against the doorframe to the living room, hands in his pockets and a quirked grin on his face like he was playing James Dean or something. All he needed were the shades and maybe a cigarette hanging from his lower lip. It was almost enough to make Sam smile; he had his suspicions that the image was one Dean deliberately cultivated, confirmed one day after accidentally walking in on the older man practising his smirk in front of a mirror, a tight white undershirt on and the collar of his leather jacket turned up around his neck. But the flicker of amusement died as Dean's words were processed.

Gareth called Dean on his cell, told him he was passing through. Just like the call in his vision, the one Missouri had just finished telling him _wasn't real_.

"Kid? Something wrong?" The grin had disappeared from Dean's face. His eyes had darkened, ever so slightly, and his head was cocked expectantly.

Missouri pushed herself up from the floor beside the armchair, dusting off her long skirt. She still looked shaky and pale, and Sam wondered why Dean wasn't asking _her _what was wrong. But the older man's eyes were fixed on him, like he was waiting for something.

Missouri started talking; "Dean, Sam just-"

"Just had a rough time. The…customer, she was kinda messed up." Sam didn't know why he was smoothing over the things his vision had shown him – the things that Missouri said the _demon_ had put in his mind.

Only he _did _know, didn't he? Or at least he had his suspicions. Suspicions that were actually making an alarming amount of sense, now he thought about it. He felt his eyes widen slightly, his mouth going slack. Dean's words earlier; the demon could be anyone, could be living in some body right across the street. If the wards were supposed to keep it from entering the house, then how had it manipulated his vision? It wasn't possessing him but it was still there. Affecting his mind. And if it could affect _his _mind, then what was to stop it affecting anyone else's?

Some tiny stunted sense of self-preservation kicked in as he took in Missouri and Dean's questioning faces and he quickly wiped the shock from his features.

"Sam? You sure there's nothing else wrong?" Dean asked, a strange expression ghosting over his features before it straightened out into something resembling genuine concern.

"Yeah. I'm fine now." He brushed his bangs away from his face, his eyes falling to the floor as he spoke. "What were you saying about a phone call?"

"Oh, yeah." Dean said, brightening a little. "Gareth called me. The guy who I met when I was taking out possessed-Tony? He said he's passing through town, wants to know if we wanna meet up tomorrow night. He said he wants to see you, see how you're doin' now."

"Huh." Sam said, ignoring the cold shiver that ran through him. "Uh, yeah, we could do that."

Missouri sighed, sounding tired. "I suppose I can't tell you not to go. As long as you stay together."

Dean cracked an enormous plastic grin. "Yes ma'am, I'll keep a firm hold of his hand all night."

"I mean it, Dean Winchester." She rounded on him with a pointed finger. "If you're going, you _stay together_."

"We will." Sam interrupted before Dean could gear up for another sarcastic reply. The other man nodded, his face serious for a moment before he ducked out of the room. Sam listened to the heavy tread of his booted feet as he made his way up the stairs.

Missouri turned to face him as soon as Dean was out of hearing range, her hands on her hips. "Do you mind telling me why we're not letting Dean know about your vision?" She sounded honestly confused.

Sam ducked his head, chewing on his lower lip. "I just…I don't want him to worry. Like you said, it wasn't real. Was it?"

Her face softened. "Oh honey, of course it wasn't. The demon was using your thoughts and fears against you, to try and keep you on edge. You need to ignore it."

"Yeah." Sam nodded, keeping his head down. "Okay."

* * *

Nine o'clock at night found Dean lying on his back in the room Missouri had assigned to him, holding the pill bottle above his head like it was something to be examined carefully. The tiny pills rattled against the plastic as he absently rolled it between his fingers.

Margaret was right, he had decided. No point in yelling accusations; Sam would only look at him with big pained eyes, hunching down inside one of those hoodies like he was just waiting for a punch. It killed Dean every time he saw it, and whether Sam was taking pills or not, he wasn't about to do anything that would make the kid think he couldn't come to Dean if he needed help.

And besides, if they were Sam's pills, he'd miss them sooner or later. _Then_ maybe Dean might get some answers.

He sighed, dropping the bottle on the bed sheets beside him and rolling over onto his stomach. More than anything, he wished his dad were here. He wished he knew John was okay, that he and Caleb hadn't been captured or… He pressed his face into the pillow, blocking out the thought before it could finish.

He couldn't help but feel that he was screwing everything up. Flying by the seat of his pants had always been his speciality, and usually it all worked out okay in the end, but right now? Right now there was way too much at stake. People he cared about were in danger, and he felt worse than useless.

A tentative knock at the door jarred him from his thoughts. He snatched up the pill bottle, tucking it under his pillow before calling out.

"Come in."

Sam's head appeared around the door. The kid looked pale and nervous, and for a second a hot viciousness flooded Dean's mind, sure that Sam was about to confess to taking pills and beg forgiveness. Guilt and shame were hot on its tail; if Sam _were _about to tell him, the last thing he would need was Dean's anger.

But Sam only smiled weakly at him, lingering in the doorway like he wasn't sure he was welcome. "Hi."

"Hey kiddo. C'mon in. Sit." Dean gestured to the end of the bed.

The kid carefully made his way around the strewn clothing covering the floor – _Sam _might be a neat-freak, but Dean was messy, and he liked it that way.

"What's up? You were quiet over dinner."

"Yeah." Sam sat, staring at his hands clenched together in his lap. "Uh, there's something I gotta talk to you about."

Dean sat up straighter. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." Sam met his eyes shyly, his hair flopping across his forehead. It occurred to Dean that the kid hadn't had a haircut in god knows how long, and the long strands looked greasy and unkempt. Not like Sam at all. "It's…while you were out. With Margaret. I, uh…"

Dean frowned. "You what?" He prompted, trying to keep his voice gentle.

Sam bit his lip, the pink flesh turning white under the pressure of his front teeth. "I…I had a…a kind-of vision."

"You…what?" That wasn't what Dean had been expecting, and it threw him off course.

"It was…Missouri said it wasn't real. That it was the demon trying to mess with me. But, uh…I heard you."

"You heard me?" The constant questions coming out of his mouth unheeded made Dean feel slow and stupid, left out of the loop. Why the hell hadn't this come up earlier, when they were all making nice with each other at dinner?

"Yeah." Sam's hands were twisting together in his lap, the only visible sign of agitation Dean could see. "You were talking to Gareth on the phone. And then you came in, and said Gareth had called you."

"Oh."

"Yeah." Sam was watching him, looking like he was waiting for something more than _'oh'_ in response. But Dean's thought processes were stuck, like glue in the cogs of a machine, and all he could do was stare blankly.

Downstairs, Missouri dropped something to the floor with a clatter. Sam's head snapped toward the open doorway like a gundog sensing a kill.

"What? What's wrong?" Dean had his hand out, reaching for the kid before he could stop to think.

Sam looked back at him, a sheepish half smile on his lips. "Nothin'. Sorry, just…startled. By the noise." There was something _not right_ about Sam's expression, in the way his smile didn't crinkle the corners of his eyes.

It made Dean feel edgy.

"Hey, can I hang out here for a bit? Missouri told me to meditate in my room, but I'm not really feeling it at the moment. Too many thoughts." Sam's hand came to rest over Dean's on top of the bed covers, and he let his fingers wander softly over Dean's knuckles like he was mapping out each groove of skin.

Dean thought suddenly about that hidden bottle of pills, nestled under his pillow. "Sam…"

Sam looked up at him, eyes half covered by a lock of dark hair. Dean sucked in a loud breath. "Kid, is there anything…is there anything you're not telling me? 'Cause you know you can talk to me, if you need to. About anything."

The kid bit his lip, eyes darting to the open doorway again, a split-second movement that Dean wouldn't have caught if he hadn't been looking for it. "Can…can we talk about this tomorrow? Maybe before we meet Gareth? I-I think it would go better if we had a few drinks."

Dean narrowed his eyes, feeling sore all over. Well, _that _was practically a confirmation. But maybe it would be better if they talked about it outside of the house. Something about being stuck in here, it made Dean's head crazy. It was probably the lack of travelling, the sense of being tethered down to a single place with no room to breathe or move. He wondered how he ever did it before, lived in an apartment, held down a job. Although, it occurred to him, his 'normal life' was punctuated with liberal amounts of alcohol. Maybe discussing Sam's not-so-secret secret in a bar _was _a good idea.

"Yeah, kiddo. It can wait."

"Can I still stay? Here, with you?" Sam asked, worrying his lower lip, like he honestly believed Dean might turn him away.

"Of course you can, kid. C'mere." Dean tugged on Sam's arm, pulling him down onto the bed.

Sam craned his head to meet Dean's eyes. "Dean, Missouri's rules-"

"Hey, we're not gonna do anything." He grinned, and the expression only felt partially fake. "Just…lie here for a bit. That cool?"

"Yeah." Sam smiled back at him. "That's cool."

Dean spooned up behind him, wrapping an arm over the kid's chest so he could feel his heartbeat under the palm of his hand. He nuzzled the back of Sam's neck, just a little, and Sam relaxed into the embrace with a soft sigh.

Dean's other hand slipped under the pillow, closing around the pill bottle. He squeezed it hard, feeling the white childproof cap imprint lines into his flesh, enough to hurt a little. A reminder.

* * *

Dean was asleep. Sam could tell without having to look over his shoulder; he'd learned the rhythms of Dean's breathing, the slow and steady beat of his heart against Sam's back. This last week, lying in bed alone, the memory had been the only thing that let him finally slide into sleep.

The sun had set a while ago, covering the room in shadows. Dean's room was simpler than Sam's, no vase of flowers on the dresser and no patterns on the bed sheets. It was probably a good thing; Dean would have bitched for hours about being stuck in a 'girly' room otherwise. For someone who was carrying out an increasingly _not _secret relationship with another guy, Dean was surprisingly insecure when it came to his masculinity. Then again, the older man had never defined their relationship in clear terms. It didn't bother Sam so much anymore though – Dean cared, that much was obvious to anyone, and it was the best thing Sam could imagine, ever.

Missouri started humming softly somewhere downstairs, brief snatches of tune floating up to Sam. It made him bite his lip, turning his thoughts back to the feeling of _Dean_, snug and warm against his back. Sam's eyes fell shut, sleep threatening, but he forced himself to stay awake. It was rare that Dean ever fell asleep before Sam; usually the older man would lay awake, absently stroking Sam's back or the side of his neck, once running a finger down the bridge of his nose again and again until Sam dropped off. Sometimes Sam wondered if it was because the other man didn't trust himself not to react to the heat of Sam's body while he was asleep, unconsciously do something he'd regret. It was true that Dean was more tactile when he was out of the count. Sam smiled to himself, his point proven as Dean's hand – which had started the night lying innocuously over his shirt-covered chest – migrated further downward until the pinky finger was sliding under the waistband of Sam's boxers. Sam caught it before it could go too far, moving it to a safer position. Despite his surety that he was _ready_, goddamnit, ready for that final step, he didn't want to coerce Dean into it while he was hovering between sleep and wakefulness.

It was still tempting though, sometimes.

His thoughts drifted back to the demon, that vision. The way the demon had crawled into his head, reading his thoughts like a picture book. If it could get inside his head, it could get inside _all _of their heads. He bit down on his lip hard.

"Sam?"

The voice startled him. He blinked, seeing Missouri's outline silhouetted in the open doorway to Dean's room, the light directly behind her blanking out her features. She was just a shape, a person-form that seemed to be composed entirely of shadows. It made Sam's stomach turn.

"Are you going to bed?" She spoke quietly, a faint trace of disapproval in her tone.

"Uh, yeah. I was…just getting up." He pushed Dean's arm away and sat up. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Dean's forehead crease, his fingers clenching in the warm spot Sam had been laying in.

Missouri stepped away from the door, letting Sam escape the room with his shoulders hunched and his head down. Before he could run and hide, she caught his arm. "Sam? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

She cocked her head, her eyebrows arched. "Really. Then why do you keep thinking about that false vision?"

Sam tried to pretend he was a part of the wall. When that didn't work, he reluctantly met her eyes. "I…I guess it's just…bothering me. I mean, the phone call – that came _true_. What if…"

Missouri sighed softly, stroking his forearm. "Child, you can't trust anything that demon sends you. I mean it. Demons lie, but sometimes they tell the truth, when it suits them. If the demon can make you doubt the people around you," she glanced over at Dean's sleeping form for a second, "then it's won something. You _can't _let it win."

Sam took a deep, slightly shaky breath. "Okay. Okay, I'll try."

"Good." She smiled warmly. It was the expression Sam had seen thousands of times before on sitcom moms, a smile he'd imagined on his own mother's face as she looked down at him, lying in his crib as a newborn, a six-month year old baby. He turned away as quickly as he could.

"I'm, uh, gonna get to bed. Good night."

* * *

Dean sat on the wall outside Rex's Bar, watching the sun go down behind the shop fronts across the streets. Despite the expensive backlit sign, the bar was crowded with bikers and girls in little more than stringy bikini tops, tramp stamp tattoos peeking out over low-cut jeans and tiny skirts. It was the first time Dean had felt at home since arriving in the town his mother had died in.

Although they'd agreed to talk, Sam had wandered off as soon as they'd climbed out of the car, making some vague noise about buying a bran muffin and checking his email in the Starbucks on the opposite side of the road. Dean kept his eyes on the kid through the glass-front of the shop, watching him grace the barista with an awkward smile, watching him boot up the laptop. He knew the smile on the kid's face as he connected to the WiFi; it was the one that grew every time he picked up a book or walked into a library. From the few things Sam had told him, Dean knew it was always Jim Miller's job to do the research for hunts. It just confirmed what a crappy father the man was; Sam was obviously in his element when he was learning, putting the facts together to find an answer. Either Jim hadn't cared enough to see Sam's love of knowledge, or he'd known all too well how much his son enjoyed that side of the hunt and deliberately denied Sam that small pleasure.

Dean allowed himself to watch as Sam left the coffee house, tracking the loose stride and the long rangy body hidden under layers of clothing.

"What time is Gareth supposed to be meeting us?" Sam asked as he approached, stowing the laptop away in the trunk of the Impala. He sat himself on the wall beside Dean, a foot of space between them. This wasn't the place to be touchy-feely, even if Dean had been in the mood for public displays of affection.

"In about half an hour." Dean met Sam's eyes, smiling to try and put the kid at ease a little. "Uh, there was something you wanted to discuss?" Sam seemed to shrink away at that, his arms held stiffly over his chest and his head dropping to gaze at the dirty sidewalk. _Smooth, Dean_, he thought. _Start aggressively, that's the way to get the kid to open up_.

He glanced behind him quickly, putting an arm out to squeeze Sam's shoulder after making sure there was no one around to notice. Sam peeked up at him from the corner of his eye, putting on a tiny smile for Dean's benefit.

Dean sighed softly.

After all this was over, he decided, they'd take a break. Somewhere touristy – he'd seen Sam trying not to ogle all the people on vacation in the towns they blew through, nothing better to do than lie on the beach or wander through gift shops buying useless crap made from shells. It would drive Dean crazy, being around all those brainless people on two-week breaks from their nine-to-five jobs, but it'd be more than worth it to see Sam's smile. His mind threw up an image of the two of them, walking along a boardwalk somewhere at sundown, listening to the chatter of hotdog vendors and sunburned vacationers and drunken college kids. He'd buy Sam a beer and they'd sit on the beach together in the dark, listening to the waves lapping the shore, maybe making out a little when no one was around to see, to interrupt. Just the two of them, like it should be.

Of course, to do all of that they had to get through whatever the demon was planning for them.

"I…" Sam started talking, breaking Dean out of his daydream. "I…uh…"

"Dean?" The second voice made Sam's mouth snap shut instantly, and Dean wanted to hit whoever it was. He looked up to see Gareth's scarred face, the older man climbing out of a beat up pickup truck by the side of the road.

"Hey, Gareth." He said, trying to inject a little enthusiasm into his voice. Sam was about to tell him, goddamnit, admit to him what he'd known all along. The kid was about to _trust _him with his secret.

But Gareth wasn't even looking in Dean's direction. His eyes were locked onto Sam, something like awe written across his rough features. "Sammy? Boy, is that you?"

Sam blushed like he didn'tlike the attention, like he didn't understand how anyone could be pleased to see him. His head went down again, his hair flopping forward like an ink stain over his face, black in the falling light.

Dean stood, his eyes on Sam. "Uh, yeah, this is Sam. Sam, this is Gareth."

Sam gave the older man a shy smile from under his bangs. "Uh, hi. You, uh, you knew my dad?"

"I did. Once upon a time." Gareth said, taking another hesitant step toward Sam. He stopped before he got too close, which Dean was glad for. "Knew you, too. Until your dad stopped me from seein' ya. But you prob'ly don't remember that now."

"Sorry." Sam looked honestly distressed that he couldn't remember, that he couldn't _please _this guy who was a stranger to him. Dean hated that about him; that he still felt that he had something to prove in order to make people like him.

Gareth nodded sombrely, like he was thinking the same thing Dean was. "Hey, it's fine. You were just a kid. It's just good ta know you're okay now."

Dean looked between the two men, one staring like he couldn't quite believe his eyes, the other huddled up like he wished he could dissolve into the wall he was sitting on. "Uh, maybe we should go inside, get that drink."

Gareth looked over at Dean, like he'd forgotten there was anyone else in the world other than Sam. "Oh. Yeah. Guess that's what we're here for." He looked back over at Sam again. "You okay with drinkin', Sammy? I should've thought…I mean, after your daddy…" He scratched at his neck, awkward tension making his words jerky.

"It's fine. Really." Sam met Gareth's eyes with a small smile. "I can drink. Dean and I, we…we've been to bars, it's fine." He glanced over at Dean, warmth in his eyes. "Anyway, my dad…alcohol didn't make him do any of the stuff he did. It just…helped him along, a little."

"Okay." Gareth nodded once, the failing sunlight making the scars on his face look like a miniature mountain range carved painfully into flesh.

Dean clapped his hands together, drawing the attention of the other two. "Okay, let's go. I need a beer, like, yesterday."

* * *

Sam sipped at his second bottle of Corona with lime, listening to Dean talk as they sat at the bar. It was one of his favourite things to do; just sit and listen as Dean charmed witnesses, waitresses, cops, little kids. Once he'd even managed to talk a distraught ghost-girl into dropping the wrought iron candlestick she'd been about to use in a fit of jealousy on her baby brother, instead persuading her to move on into the light, which she'd meekly done after seeing Dean's beaming smile. Sam put up with Dean's little old midget lady impressions for a week after that – _"Go into the light! Cross over, children! This house…is clean!"_

It was something normal, something Dean _did _whether they were on a hunt or not.

But it didn't distract him from the fact that there were things he couldn't tell Dean about, not yet. Like his hastily-sent email in the coffee shop half an hour ago, a brusque typed line; _Stephen – John Winchester & Caleb MIA – Sam. _He had no doubt that Stephen, sittting alone in that enormous wreck of a mansion, would had received the email instantly. He also knew that the old man would trace the email to its origin; a Starbucks coffee house. Stephen had a code he gave out to hunters he trusted and worked with often enough to need precautions in place. It was instilled into Sam back when he was hunting with his father, something he knew as well as he knew his left from his right. It had been Stephen's idea of black humour – Starbucks coffee houses were clearly taking over the world. Sam didn't think his father got the joke, but he knew the code as well as Sam did. _If you're on a hunt and you think you might be compromised, send an email with instructions from a Starbucks. _Stephen wouldn't come to help him, but he'd do as Sam requested. If anyone could find Dean's dad and Caleb, it was Stephen.

And if the demon _was _listening in, it couldn't dig the knowledge out of Dean's mind if he didn't know it to begin with. He hated keeping things from Dean, but if it made the older man a less tempting target for the demon, then there was no choice. He'd just have to hope Dean would understand, when this was all over.

"Sammy? C'n I get you another?" Gareth asked, leaning in close enough that Sam could see every pocked mark of skin on his face, every strange smooth patch of scar tissue. It made him sick to think his father had done that.

"I'm good, thanks." He tried to grin, holding his half-full bottle up so the other man could see it.

Gareth didn't immediately move away. "Aw, you'll be done with that in no time. I'll buy ya another, I owe Dean for the last round."

Dean flashed him a grin that didn't quite meet his eyes, waiting for Gareth to step up to the bar before leaning in. "You don't have to drink it, kiddo. Gareth'll understand if you say no."

Sam shrugged, feeling vaguely guilty – for what, he had no idea. "No, no, it's fine. He's already paid for it. I don't wanna-"

Gareth interrupted before he could finish, plopping the full bottle down in front of Sam. He passed over another to Dean, raising his own in a toast. "Here's to a successful hunt!"

Dean smiled apologetically at Sam, raising his bottle to clink against Gareth's. "To a successful hunt. Hey, Sam, d'ya want a glass of water before you get started on that next beer?"

"Um…" Sam bit his lip, watching from the corner of his eye as Gareth turned to look at him, a concerned expression on his face.

"Hey, you really don't haveta drink it, Sammy…"

Sam ducked his head, reluctantly picking up the new bottle. "No, I want it, really. It's fine."

Gareth nodded, like Sam's show had convinced him. "Y'know, Sammy, I c'n still see somethin' of that kid I met in you, back when you were a boy. You don't know how much I regretted not helpin' ya out more, back then."

Sam watched as Dean's eyes softened, his hand reaching over to slap Gareth on the shoulder. "Hey, it's just good to know Sam had someone watching out for him, for a while at least."

Sam shrunk back on the bar stool, overbalancing slightly and snatching at Gareth's big forearm to catch himself. His head ached a little from the crowd, the smell of spilled alcohol on the sticky surface of the bar. He smiled feebly at the two men discussing him like a charity project, feeling shamed by his own weakness.

Dean laughed suddenly, and Sam tuned back in to the conversation. They'd moved on; now discussing cars, making incredulous noises at the discovery of a mutual hunter friend with a salvage yard up in South Dakota. Sam let them talk, staring at his hands wrapped around the bottle in his lap. Every few minutes, he felt the weight of their gazes as they fell on his bowed head.

* * *

Dean was on his sixth bottle and feeling damn fine. Good surroundings, good company and good conversation all added up to the most fun he'd had in what felt like years. Sam was a warm body to his left, safe and by his side, where he should be. He made sure to brush up against the kid every now and then, just to feel a whisper of hair on the back of his hand or the heat of skin under clothes.

Gareth was halfway through a story about a wendigo hunt in Black Water Ridge that had Dean almost pissing himself trying to hold back laughter.

He was about to offer to buy another round when Gareth excused himself with a roll of his eyes and a thumb to the men's room.

"Hey, Dean?" Sam tugged on his sleeve, making Dean wobble on his feet slightly. Damn, it _had _been a while if he was halfway to drunk on only six beers.

"What's up, kiddo?" Sam's cheeks were flushed, his hand still gripping Dean's sleeve tightly. It occurred to Dean that the kid had drunk almost as much as he had, and he felt a hot rush of sick guilt. "Oh, fuck, Sammy, I shoulda asked if you wanted to go home."

Sam shook his head, his lips pressed tightly together like he was trying to keep the words in. "No, I'm fine. I was just wondering, when _do _you wanna go, 'cause Missouri's not gonna like us getting in too late."

"Yeah, you're right." Dean nodded, surreptitiously manoeuvring so that his hand was splayed low on Sam's back behind the cover of the crowded bar. "We'll finish these up and get going, yeah?"

The kid's face showed badly concealed relief. "Okay, cool."

Dean smiled at him, his hand rubbing Sam's back gently, tiny up-and-down motion that made the kid lean into his side a little. Dean glanced around; no one was looking, most of the other patrons well on their way to drunken oblivion.

"Hey, Dean." Gareth reappeared suddenly, looking surprisingly sober, a deep frown cutting through his scarred face.

"Gareth, listen, I think we're gonna get going-"

"Dean, I hate to tell ya, but I glanced outside on my way back, and I think someone might've bumped your car."

Dean choked on a mouthful of beer. "What? Jesus fuck, I'm gonna-" He shoved off the bar, his hand instinctively grabbing Sam's.

"Hey, hey, calm down." Gareth caught his shoulder, squeezing gently with one big hand. "It's not that bad, I just saw some broken glass on one side-"

"_What?_"

"Dean, calm down!" Sam pushed in close to him, leaning down a little to bring his mouth close to Dean's ear. His eyes darted from side to side before he began to speak in a low voice. "Look, this might be a trick. The demon could be here, playing with us. Maybe it wants to getus alone outside."

Dean met the kid's eyes. "But Sam, my car…"

"Dean." Sam cocked his head. "We've gotta _be careful_."

"Well, we can't stay in here forever." He sucked in a breath, glancing at Gareth who was watching them curiously. "Look, why don't you stay here-"

"Fuck that." Sam spoke over him, an obstinatelook on his face. "We go out together. There's three of us, we're as safe as we're gonna get, which isn't much. All I'm saying is, we should look out."

He nodded at the kid reluctantly. "Okay. Okay, let's go."

Dean went first, keeping Sam close behind him. He made sure Sam was between him and Gareth, that anything that might want to harm the kid would have to go through them first.

Outside, the air was crisp and sharp in his lungs. A group of bikers stood in the parking lot, admiring each other's bikes and laughing loudly. Dean kept his eyes on them, making his way cautiously to the Impala, parked on the street.

There was a low brick wall separating the parking lot and the sidewalk, blocking Dean's view of the car from the windows down. He jumped it quickly, reaching out to run a hand down the glossy black paintwork. There was no broken glass, no scratch-marks, no nicks to the chrome. He circled around the Impala, frowning as he examined the headlights, the taillights. It was just as he left it. There wasn't any glass on the ground, not even a broken bottle to explain what Gareth had said he'd seen.

He looked up, his mouth open to ask what the hell was going on.

The only people he could see were the group of bikers, still laughing. Gareth and Sam were gone.


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense… Betaed by the wonderful Phx :)

Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to review, I appreciate hearing all your thoughts on the story :)

WARNING – issues of non-consensual sex in this chapter, a few graphic images.

Chapter 13

Sam's head was spinning, the smell of sweat and grease stuck in his nose like he was inhaling an armpit. Dean's hand was around his wrist, dragging him through the crowd of people in the bar until a door opened and they hit cool fresh air. Someone laughed nearby. Sam stopped walking and Dean let go of his arm, walking away with his fists clenched tight at his sides. He didn't look back, and Sam just watched him walk for a moment, keeping his eyes on the rolling gait of the older man's bow-legs. Dean hopped the low wall keeping him from his car, reaching a hand out to stroke the paintwork tenderly.

Gareth pressed up behind Sam, gripping his shoulder with a vise-like hand. "Hey, did you hear that?"

"Huh?" Sam turned, or tried to turn, but his head felt heavy and too big for his neck to hold. Was this what drunk was like? Why the hell would anyone want to do this to themselves?

Gareth was gazing off to one side, the opposite direction to Dean. His craggy forehead was creased oddly and his fingers were dug hard into the skin of Sam's shoulder. "I heard something. Over there." He waved his free hand in a vague direction. "C'mon. We should check it out."

He started off, his hand still firmly gripping Sam's shoulder. Sam staggered a little, his feet unsteady under his body. "Shouldn't we tell Dean-"

"He'll follow. Let's go." The brusque order had him moving before he could stop to think, following in Gareth's wake like a trained dog.

The big man led him around the bar, into the shadows cast by the dull light of the moon above. Sam blinked, his vision moving sluggishly over the scenery; wall, sidewalk, parked car, curb, tree. He tried to look back, to catch Dean's eye and let him know where they were going, but somehow the bar had moved to block Dean from sight. He stumbled, almost falling to his knees before Gareth turned to catch him.

"Hey, careful there. You don't wanna hurt yourself, do you?"

He stared at the man, his ruined face close enough for Sam to smell the beer on his breath. The jagged scars looked smooth on top, waxy where the light caught them. Sam wanted to move back, but the hands holding him up were too tight, too firm.

Suddenly he was moving, Gareth's face still eerily intent on his own. The hands spun him in a sloppy pirouette, practically lifting his feet from the ground. He was manoeuvred backwards, steered into a tiny dark alley separating the bar from the building beside it. His back hit the high wall of the bar with a thud that made his teeth snap together, and Gareth moved in closer, closer than he had any _right _to be.

"Y'have no idea… So long, it's been so long..."

Sam frowned, trying to think. What the hell was going on here? Why wasn't Dean with them? He opened his mouth to yell, but before he could make a sound Gareth's big hand clapped over it, the palm dry and flaky.

"Gotta be quiet, sweetheart, gotta be good." The man muttered, almost to himself. His eyes were running over Sam's face, lingering on his cheeks, his lips. His expression was worshipful, like Sam was something incredible to see.

The hand moved down to Sam's throat, a warning squeeze stopping him from trying to call out again. Instead Sam gasped out a word, a tiny breath of voice. "_Christo._"

Gareth met his gaze at that, not a hint of black or demonic yellow in his eyes, instead smiling almost fondly. "Just me, darlin'. Just you an' me…the way it shoulda been years ago."

Before Sam had time to take it in – Gareth wasn't possessed, Gareth was _doing this because he wanted to_ – a loud hum suddenly filled the night, too noisy to hear his own thoughts over, and Sam's head swung toward the source of the sound. An industrial fan built into the side of the wall filtering the stuffy air out of the bar, billows of it hitting the side of Sam's face. There was an overflowing dumpster at the end of the alley, rotting food spilling over the sidewalk and adding to the putrid smell.

"I wanted to do this proper, special-like…but seein' you like that, Jesus…" Gareth's body was pinning Sam to the wall, his voice breaking into panting breaths between words that were somehow more sickening against his skin than the sweaty stale air being blown in his face by the fan.

He tried to prise the man off, to free himself, but his hands felt too heavy to lift and his legs prickled with pins-and-needles. Instead he wriggled, using his head to butt at the big man's face. A split-second later there was a loud crack. He was blinking away stars dancing across his vision before he realised the sound was his head connecting with the brickwork. A metallic taste filled his mouth, sharp and sour like curdled milk. The tip of his tongue throbbed, and he hoped he hadn't bitten clean through it.

"_Don't_ do that again." A growl, nothing like the perverse endearments before it. This voice sounded hard as rock, put him instantly in mind of Jim Miller. His head felt muddled and dizzy, his muscles automatically relaxing on order.

* * *

"Sam! Sammy!"

Dean spun wildly, looking up and down the deserted street, as if Sam and Gareth might have wandered off somewhere. But apart from the bikers, the place was still. His heart pounding, he jumped the wall again, running back to the bar. Maybe they'd stepped back inside, decided to have one more drink and he'd find them at the bar, beers in hand and exchanging more stories about life on the road, and they'd all have a big laugh about Dean's momentary freak-out…

He shoved the door open to a mass of writhing people. Someone had turned on the music in the few minutes they'd been outside, and all the naked girl-flesh was lit up in strobe, jigging alarmingly with each flicker of neon light. The bass thudded under his feet, running up his legs and pounding in time with his heart. He couldn't even tell what song was playing. He wrenched his way inside, pushing away gropes and ignoring the dirty looks he got in return.

"_Sam!_" He could barely hear himself over the music. He scrubbed a hand through his short hair, biting hard on his lip.

No Sam. No Gareth either, and he didn't think his heart could take much more without bursting through his ribcage.

Sam had _just told him _to be careful. Hell, Missouri had told him to make sure they stuck together, and _Christ _why hadn't he paid more attention? He was a _hunter_, goddamnit, this was his _job_.

If the demon was here…

He would have heard something. He had his back turned for a _second_, if the demon had shown up Sam or Gareth or those bikers would have noticed, would have yelled, would have made _some kind of noise_.

Why the fuck had he been so worried about his _car_, of all things? The car was special, sure, but it was a piece of metal and paint at the end of the day. Easily replaced.

Sam could never, not in a million years, ever be replaced.

He turned and made his way back to the door, freeing himself from the claustrophobic crowd with a gasp. The door swung shut behind him, muffling the music to a single rhythmic beat, echoing his footfalls as he stumbled towards the bikers.

"Hey! Hey, did you-did you see a kid a minute ago? He came out with me and another guy, big guy with a scarred face?"

The tallest biker turned to look him up and down, the beginning of a sneer growing on his lip. "You talkin' to me?"

"Yes!" Dean yelled, his hands fisting at his sides. He barely restrained the urge to wrap them around the guy's thick bull neck, instead settling for digging nails into his palms.

"Well, that ain't askin' nicely. We don't deal with people who ain't _polite_ here."

Dean had him up against the wall in a split-second, hands gripping the leather of his jacket. His lips were pulled back in a snarl, so wide he thought they might split at the corners. "_Did you see them?_"

A sudden stillness passed over the group, all amusement sucked from the air. It felt like he'd stepped right into a den of tigers, but he didn't give a shit about his _personal safety _right then. He could hear the guy's friends coming up behind him, the clink of something metal being pulled from a pocket, the heavy footstep of thick-soled boots.

He didn't care. "Tell me if you saw them!" To punctuate, he pulled the guy forward an inch, thrust him back into the wall.

The punch caught him on the side of his head, making his ears ring, but he didn't let go, didn't even turn. One of the other bikers, a big guy with a shaven head and a spiderweb tattooed below his ear, gripped his shirt and tried to pull him into another punch.

He stuck his hand down the back of his jeans, pulling free the gun he kept there.

The guy let go, holding both hands up in a sign of surrender. "Hey, hey, no need for that."

"Just _tell me if you saw them_, and we'll forget this shit happened."

"They went around the side of the building!"

Dean took off in the direction the guy pointed, not bothering to look back.

* * *

The back of Sam's head felt sore and bruised.

Something cold had passed over him, pulling him a step back from his body. He vaguely recognised it from injuries so bad they'd made him shiver in eighty-degree heat, his blood pooling on the ground around him; _shock_. He was going into shock, a place where everything happened in snapshots and his body felt like it didn't belong to him. He had some good memories of shock – it made things not hurt, it made situations less scary, and it meant that the man currently running icy hands over his skin like that was something everyone was allowed to do was just a distant suggestion, something he could reduce to just that – a pair of hands. Maybe even _his _hands; he couldn'tfeel his fingers either way, so it was possible that his own hands were roaming his body. It would be good if they _were _his hands, because he'd only ever touched himself in some of the places they were. _His _hands touching him meant this wasn't a _bad thing_.

But the voice, _that _he couldn't pretend was his.

"…that's it sweetheart, sweet thing, you just breathe for me now, you're gonna love it, I promise…" The voice was breathy, high like a girl's. Sam wanted to laugh, except this wasn't funny for some reason, not funny at all.

One of the hands snaked around his hip, fingers creeping up under his shirt. They brushed skin, leaving prickles of goosebumps in their wake, and Sam wanted to push them away, but nothing _worked like it was supposed to_.

They slipped below, fingering the cut of his hipbones, grazing pubic hair, and now Sam _really _wanted them to stop. But they didn't do what he told them to either. Instead long fingers were unzipping his fly, popping the button of his jeans and tugging them down. His head lolled on his shoulders, heavy and thick. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he was really asleep next to Dean, except why would he be dreaming about _this_? He couldn't work up a panic though; all the fight and energy had seeped out of him, left behind in a puddle like the piss on the ground next to the dumpster, nothing to do with him.

A mouth was working its way along his jaw, licking trails like slugs crawling under his skin. The hands left his skin for a second, and the sound of a second zipper seemed louder somehow than the fan bellowing in his ear. Sam closed his eyes and tried to disconnect. He could do that, knew how to do that. It was only his body, and the best thing for him to do right now would be to shut down for a while, let it happen.

The mouth had teeth though, and they bit him on the neck like a vampire, shattering his concentration. Sam gritted his own teeth and thought desperately of the last time he and Dean had taken a break, months ago now. It had only been a day; a storm too violent for Dean to want to risk driving on the freeway. It had been like heaven, or the closest thing Sam could imagine to heaven – the two of them snuggled up warm on a single bed while rain beat a snappy tattoo against the motel windows. Lightning streaked the sky in sharp knife-slashes, but he'd felt so safe and loved, his head tucked neat under Dean's chin while Dean's fingers drew tingling patterns between his shoulder blades.

And then his eyes were open again because everything _jerked _from under him, wildly topsy-turvy and his stomach gave a rolling lurch.

He was pressed face-first against the wall when everything reoriented itself, the hard brick biting into the side of his face. His cheek burned, like the first time he'd tried shaving, using one of his dad's old disposable razors speckled with rust and tiny grey hairs from Jim Miller's jaw. He closed his eyes, remembering the thousands of tiny stings, the slap he'd gotten when his dad had walked in and caught him trying to put the shaving foam canister back in the duffle bag.

"…yeah, gonna give it to you, gonna take it _all_, gonna be screaming while I do you…" The voice crackled, in and out like the radio in the Impala as they drove across state lines.

His concentration was shot to hell, that voice keeping him in the here and now.

Where was Dean? Why wouldn't he come? Sam remembered him being happy to be out of Missouri's house, happy to talk to his friend who wasn't Sam. Happy that he could do something for himself for once, instead of being stuck in one place because Sam's head was screwed up. He was _sorry_, goddamnit! He was sorry his messed-up presence made everything hard for Dean, and if only he would come, Sam would say all the sorries in the world, if only…

Fingers, crawling and insidious, sneaking up under his shirt to pinch at his nipples unkindly.

The crash of a door brought Sam back to his senses momentarily, or threw him even further away, he couldn't tell. Crashing doors and alcohol, they reminded him of his dad, but even his dad wouldn't do this.

Once, there'd been a man. He remembered it vaguely; him only six and his dad a silent stoic mass sucking air out of the space Sam lived in. But one time there'd been a big grey man, and he'd tried…

And Sam's daddy had caught him, caught him pulling Sam's pj's down around his ankles, and he'd _roared_, so loud it'd made Sam cry. But the big grey man roared louder when daddy kicked him and hit him and made him bleed, until he didn't move anymore. They had to leave then, leave the man lying face-down on the carpet. Sam's daddy had picked him up and carried him to the car, cuddled up warm in a nest of blankets. He thought he remembered daddy kissing his hair, crying softly. But the next morning daddy's eyes were empty again, so maybe he imagined it.

Another jerk, only this time it made the man holding him up disappear, and without those sickening touches, those hands, Sam found himself a scrambled mess on the floor. He blinked, trying to put things in order, but his mind wouldn't work in a straight line, and was his daddy here to take care of the big grey man again? Did Dean come to find him?

Someone was yelling something. The sound of skin hitting skin, the sound of bones being broken, and then there was quiet.

* * *

Dean rounded the side of the bar, his heart in his throat. Gareth would have put up a fight, he told himself. If the demon had come and tried to hurt Sam, tried to take him, Gareth would have fought to keep him save. He hoped.

The music wasn't so loud out here, overpowered by the hum of some kind of air conditioning built into the bar.

It wasn't loud enough to cover the sound of someone grunting. A grunt like they were in pain. Dean's head snapped towards it, towards the tiny gap between the buildings that he hadn't even noticed was there. He stepped into it, gun pointed ahead of him, and Gareth's red sweaty face met him on the other side, his mouth hanging open and his eyes stretched wide and wild.

His jeans were bunched around his ankles and for a second Dean thought he'd had it all wrong, Gareth had just come around here to take a piss or something, and he started to apologise for catching the guy in mid-flight. But there was someone else in the alleyway, up against the wall, someone…

_Sam_, his face pressed into the wall, turned away from Dean so all he could see was the back of the kid's head, his jeans shoved down to his knees and the elastic of his boxers stretched around the meaty part of his thighs. _His _Sam, oh god, he'd caught his Sammy in the middle of going at it with _Gareth_, and he stumbled backward, one arm raised in front of him like that way he could deny it. But the picture wasn't changing and it wasn't going away. This must have been what it felt like to be flayed, only that would have been kinder, that would have been a fucking _mercy_ compared to seeing this, and Dean knew he'd upset Sam by staying at the bar, but not this much, never like this…

Never. The word stuck in Dean's head. Never, nevernevernever. Never would Sam do this, not the Sam Dean knew and loved, not Sam.

His fist connected with Gareth's face before he had time to take a proper breath. He caught the guy by his shirt, dragging him away from Sam, _Dean's _Sam.

"Hey, hey!" Gareth was holding his hands out, snatching at Sam like he thought he had _any right _to touch him. "This is nothin' to do with you, man, so just back off!" Dean didn't stop to listen. Because Sam would _never _do that, not ever, Dean knew it like he knew his own heartbeat and he felt sick and dirty for thinking it, even for an instant. He punched the guy in the face again, feeling his nose crush under his knuckles. Blood spurted, making a copper mess on Gareth's white shirt.

"You fucking piece of _shit_, you don't touch him, you don't _ever _touch him!" Dean heard himself saying as his fists pummelled the guy's face, something cold and metal in his left hand dragging bleeding lines through Gareth's skin.

"He's _mine_, goddamnit, I've waited too long-" Gareth's sick words were cut off as Dean punched him in the throat, leaving him choking on his own blood. Dean felt a grin stretch his lips like a death rictus, so tight he thought they might split with the force of it.

He threw the guy, watching with hot pleasure as Gareth stumbled backward, his legs bound by the jeans caught around his ankles, and hit the dumpster at the end of the alley. His head flew backward like a ragdoll's and smashed into the lid with a crack. The guy flopped uselessly to the floor, grunting and moaning. His now-limp dick flopped against his leg, and his face was a raw mess, misshapen and broken like the scars Sam's father had put there years before had swollen and burst.

It occurred to Dean that the object in his left hand was a gun. A loaded gun. He raised it, taking careful aim.

"…Dean, don't…"

A voice, barely a whisper, made him pause for a second. He shook it off, finger tightening around the trigger.

"Dean…" Something tugged pathetically at the cuff of his jeans, making him think of Charlie, tugging Margaret's pant-leg when he wanted her attention. He looked down, seeing Sam splayed out on the concrete, one hand attempting to pull his boxers up and the other holding onto Dean's jeans like the contact was the only thing keeping him there.

The ball of emotion Dean had been trying desperately to hold off hit him with the force of a freight train collision. He gasped wordlessly, his jaw working against nothing as his knees gave out.

A hand touched his cheek, so softly he thought he was imagining it until he opened his eyes. Sam was watching him with enormous terrified eyes, staring like he didn't know what to do with himself. The full moon hanging in the air behind Dean reflected in those blown black pupils, a white circlet of untouchable purity. Then Sam leaned in close, his hand clumsily patting over Dean's face, and the reflection was gone. Sam was whispering something, his voice ragged, and Dean pressed his forehead to Sam's to hear it.

"Don't cry, Dean. Please don't cry."


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense… Betaed by the wonderful Phx :)

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I really appreciate hearing your thoughts and feedback :) The next chapter will be up same time, next week.

Chapter 14

"_Don't cry, Dean. Please don't cry." _

But Dean was still crying, Sam could see the tears up close, making shiny tracks on the older man's cheeks. He tried to wipe them away, pressing fingers that felt numb and too-big to Dean's face. He could see the moon behind Dean, floating in the sky the same as it ever had, and the unconscious slump that Gareth had fallen into, and he remembered his vision, his certainty that Dean _never cried_.

Dean didn't say anything, only pressed his forehead hard against Sam's like he wanted to absorb Sam's body into his own.

It occurred to Sam that his hand was shaking against Dean's face, that he was shivering. Half naked and shivering. He pulled away quickly, trying to tug his clothes back to their rightful places before Dean noticed.

"Sammy…" It was a whisper, a breath of a word. Dean's hands were suddenly covering his, helping him straighten his shirt and the hoodie he wore on top, pulling it down to cover...

There was probably all kinds of filth stuck to his skin, he thought as his eyes scanned the dirty alleyway. Piss, vomit, garbage and rat shit, all over him. _On _him, _in _him. He tugged the sleeve of his hoodie down over one hand, using it to scrub hard at the backs of his thighs.

Dean's hands stopped him as his skin began to burn, gently untangling his body like it was a complex knot. He didn't meet Sam's eyes, even when Sam tried to reach out to him again.

"Here, Sammy. Here, let me…" He whispered, pulling Sam's pants up over his bare ass. Dean's fingers brushed against his hip bone, and Sam jerked before he could think about it. Dean rocked back on his heels instantly, his eyes wide like he'd accidentally killed someone. "Oh god, sorry, sorry, oh _fuck_…"

The look on Dean's face, the absolute _terror_ of his expression, was what finally did it. Sam barely had time to lean to one side before he threw up.

* * *

Every muscle in Dean's body felt heavy and solid as rock, like he'd been holding the tension for _days_ without release. He watched as Sam vomited, wet and messy onto the cold cement, feeling impotent, angry, and ridiculously stupid. All his training, all his experience, everything he _was_, it was all because he wanted – _needed_ – to keep his family safe.

The most important thing he'd ever had to do, and he'd failed.

Sam, his beautiful boy, throwing up in an alley behind a not-even-worth-mentioning bar with his clothes torn off him and his body dirty and abused. Nothing, not anything Dean did, could ever take that back.

His breath hitched on a loud sob that turned out to be Sam's name. "Sammy-" He couldn't even _comfort _the kid. Couldn't risk touching him, even though it was _all _he wanted to do, because what if Sam thought it was…what if his mind linked it to…

He was worse than fucking useless, and he'd thought just the other day that he couldn't feel any lower, any more insignificant. What the fuck had he known? Right now he might as well be on the damned moon for all the good he could do.

Sam was shuddering now, his entire body wracked with tremors like he'd been submerged in ice water, except the curve of his pale throat and the thin ribbon of skin at his hip were shiny with sweat. It reminded Dean of the last time, the only other time he'd seen Sam abused, albeit in a way that was so far removed from _this _it was like comparing dogs to horses. Back in Elmstead, in that crappy little apartment Sam's father had rented; Sam had been on the floor, sweating and shaking like a junkie coming off a binge, Jim Miller a taunting presence behind Dean as he took the scene in. Dean had thought that day that abuse couldn't come any worse.

Tonight was just one revelation after the other, painfully ripping away his ignorance and leaving him dumb with it.

"I," Sam started speaking, his breath coming in tiny gasps, "I wanna…wanna go home now. Please."

The perfect emptiness of Sam's voice contrasted with his breathing, rapid pants that were quickly turning into hyperventilation. He was twisted around on the floor, his arms holding him over the pool of half-digested food swimming in alcohol that had just come up. He didn't lift his head, even as his breathing quickened, his hair covering what Dean would bet was a matching emptiness in his eyes.

His jeans were still unbuttoned, the crack of his ass showing above the waistline of his boxers.

"Sam… Sam, you gotta breathe." Dean leaned in, close as he dared, one hand hovering in the space between them like an unfinished sentence. "Sammy…"

A groan from over by the dumpster had them both freezing in place, Sam's uneven breath caught in his throat. Dean was on his feet with the gun in his hand, movements fluid like his whole life had been training toward this moment.

"No." Sam's voice stopped him before he could pull the trigger, again.

Dean looked down at Sam's wrecked expression, his awkward limbs. He was right; Sam's eyes looked lifeless and empty when they were turned on him.

"Don't." Sam said in the same dead tone.

Dean clenched his jaw around another sob. "Why not? Why the _fuck _not?"

"You can't kill someone. You can't be a murderer, Dean. I…I don't want you to be a murderer 'cause of me."

_That _had Dean lowering the gun. "What?"

With a visible effort, Sam pulled himself off the ground, leaning back against the wall as he hurriedly buttoned his jeans. "You can't. Not…not for this."

"Sam, he tried to…" He couldn't even say it.

"You _can't_ kill him. You can't be like…" Sam's face seemed to crumple in on itself, his hair falling forward to hide his eyes.

"Can't be…be like what?"

Sam didn't get a chance to answer.

Something caught Dean's attention, some flash of movement from the corner of his eye. Before he could turn to check it out, his outstretched hand erupted in fiery pain. He recoiled instinctively, pulling it in with a yelp and falling back against the wall of the alley next to Sam.

The gun was gone.

"You sonovabitch." He looked up to see Gareth's bleeding and beaten face, one side already swelling up. He stood between them and the entrance, holding the gun that had previously been in Dean's hand. "You fuckin'…_sonovabitch_." Gareth repeated, anger twisting his misshapen features into something grotesque. "You ruined it, you ruined it _all_."

The big man aimed the gun at Dean's chest, stepping closer. Beside him, Sam made a tiny squeaking sound, pressing into Dean's arm.

"I'mma _kill _you for this, this was s'posed to be _special_, goddamnit, but you _ruined it_!" Gareth's eyes were stretched wide, his teeth bared like a rabid dog. Flecks of blood-tinted spittle dotted his torn lower lip.

Some of the cold fury that had possessed Dean when he'd first stepped into the alleyway, first seen Gareth doing _that_ flared up again. He took his own step forward, leaving less than a foot of space between his chest and the barrel of the loaded gun, spreading his arms out wide to either side of him. "You-"

He was pushed back into the wall before he could finish, before he could even _start_, and at first he thought Gareth had shoved him.

But it was _Sam_, Sam standing between him and a gun, just like he had been that day in Elmstead, standing between Dean and his own abuser.

Gareth's aim faltered. "Sammy…"

"You don't call me that." Sam said, his words like dropped stones.

"Sam, I _need _you-" Gareth said, low and breathy and downright_ sickening_. Dean attempted to shove past Sam, but the hand on his chest was surprisingly firm, pinning him to the wall.

"Get out of here before I kill you myself." Sam wasn't even looking at Gareth, his head turned toward the dumpster, and it would have been _so easy _for the scarred man to hit him, to aim the gun at Sam's head and order him to do whatever the fuck he wanted. But Gareth's arm was wilting under the weight of the gun, like Sam's words had sucked every ounce of strength from his body.

"Sam…" Gareth took a step into Sam's space, his hand reaching out to touch.

That was it. Dean shoved past Sam, swinging at Gareth's head.

They went down, Dean on top of Gareth. He took advantage of the position, slamming Gareth's head into the concrete. The big man groaned, his hands grasping at Dean's throat and rolling them so Dean was lying flat on his back, a knee in his stomach.

"Get off him!" Sam's voice broke into their struggle, but neither stopped.

The gunshot, loud in the enclosed alleyway, made them freeze.

"Get. Off. Him." Sam stood with his legs apart, the gun held firmly in both hands. It didn't stop the tiny shivers running like waves through his body though.

Gareth stood, his head pivoting between Sam and the gun, and Dean climbing slowly to his feet.

His attention was held when Sam took a step toward him. "Go."

"Sam…"

Sam's finger visibly tightened on the trigger of the gun.

Gareth's eyes narrowed. He backed away, turning and running as he reached the entrance of the alley.

Dean lunged after him, everything in him wanting to rip the man apart for _daring _to ever touch Sam.

The hand fisted in his shirt stopped him, turned him to face Sam's wide eyes. "You _can't _be like him, Dean, you can't." Sam whispered with frantic intensity.

"Be like who, Sam?"

Sam ducked his head, such an achingly familiar gesture that it stopped Dean's heart for a second. "You can't be like my dad. You can't…_hate _like he does. Please." He met Dean's gaze, the light of the moon catching the unshed tears rimming his eyes. "Can…can we just go home? I just wanna _go home_."

* * *

Sam leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the Impala's passenger window, letting the vibrations of the engine rattle around his head. In the night beyond the window, flashes of streetlights left photo-flare streaks across his eyelids. He huddled further down in the seat, tugging his hoodie tight around his waist.

"Nearly there, kiddo." Dean said, his voice breaking slightly at the end of the sentence. He'd been making inane comments for the last twelve minutes; the twelve minutes it took to walk back from the alley, to pass the laughing group of bikers outside the bar who for some reason stopped talking when they caught sight of the two of them like they _knew what had happened_, twelve minutes to get into the car, to drive down the street and back to Missouri's house. It hadn't been the home Sam was thinking of – he had no idea where that home might be, only that it involved him and Dean and _no one else_ – but it would do. It was safe, at least, a place nobody unexpected could find him.

He didn't like being in the car, which was weird because it was the first place he'd thought of when he said 'home'. But as soon as he'd climbed inside his skin had started itching and crawling, and it had been all he could do not to jump right back out again. Touching anything, even just sitting back against the seat felt _bad_, somehow, and it finally occurred to him why as they pulled up outside Missouri's.

It was _on him_ still, the dirt from the alley, stuck to his skin and his clothes and the soles of his sneakers. He was tainting everything he touched, spreading the infection.

Luckily Dean pulled up to the curb at that moment, and he jumped out of the car before the older man had turned off the engine.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" Dean scrambled after him, a look of open fear on his face. He winced as the words came out, his hand tightening to a fist on the shiny roof of the Impala. Sam noticed that he kept a foot of space between them. That was good. Dean couldn't be close to him, not while he was covered in filth.

"I…I gotta…" Sam couldn't even get the words out, his lip curling against the urge to spit, to hawk up everything inside himself, everything that had been there while Gareth was… "Shower."

The expression on Dean's face changed, shifted through a myriad of emotions before settling on determined. "Okay Sammy. Let me-" Dean reached out to take Sam's arm.

"No!" Sam said, louder than he'd meant to, but _oh god_ Dean had to stay away from him until he was clean, he _had to_.

Dean froze, his mouth open slightly and his hand still in the air.

Sam couldn't care, not right now. He had to _wash_, but to wash meant going into Missouri's house, his shoes _touching _her carpet, leaving traces all over it that other people would step in and take with them. He stared at the path leading to her front door, seeing all the places he'd have to touch to get inside and feeling panic swelling up inside his gut. His breathing quickened.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice seemed to come from far away. "Sammy, calm down. Breathe, just-" He came closer, and Sam jerked away before anything could touch, stumbling backward into the car. He closed his eyes, imagining the filth spreading into the paintwork like a disease, like a virus.

"Sam!"

It was the last thing he heard as everything turned black.

* * *

Dean managed to catch Sam's body as it went limp, one arm around his shoulders, the other around his waist. The weight made him sag almost to his knees, cradling Sam to him like he'd been desperate to do all night.

He cupped the back of Sam's neck, arranging it to rest gently on his shoulder. Sam's face was calm and peaceful, and Dean wanted to laugh at how much he wished the same were true of Sam's mind.

Rocking him slightly, Dean allowed his own despair to overtake him, just for a moment. Nothing would ever be the same now. He'd _allowed _Sam to be hurt, and nothing was ever going to be the same.

He pressed a soft kiss to the top of Sam's head, mindful of the fact that he might not be able to kiss him again, not for a while. Maybe not at all.

He hooked an arm under Sam's knees, picking him up bridal-style, and walked toward Missouri's front door.

* * *

"…I just think…" There was a voice. Sam frowned, keeping his eyes tightly closed. If he ignored it, maybe it'd go away.

It _had _to go away.

"…we need to call someone…" A different voice. A woman's voice. Missouri's.

"…will you just _let me _look after him? I've been doing it for the past year, I _know _how to care for Sam!" Dean hissed, obviously trying to keep his voice down. A second later Sam felt the ghost of a touch, millimetres from his cheek. It hesitated for a moment before being snatched away. He wished it would come back, give him something to focus on, but at the same time he was glad that it didn't connect because no one should touch him. Not while he was dirty.

Footsteps, muffled by carpet. "I never said you didn't, Dean. I just think-"

"I _know _what you think!"

Sam could hear it in Dean's voice, the low warning growl as he built up to a massive explosion. He forced his eyes open before the older man could get going. "Dean?" His head ached, a lump forming at the back, and he remembered getting thrown into a wall. Stopped thinking quickly before the memory could carry on.

He tried pushing himself upright, but his arms felt weak and wobbly. Dean came into view, his face pale. "Sammy, god. Are you…how are you feelin'?"

Sam ignored him, glancing around the room. _His _room; or at least the room Missouri was letting him stay in. He was lying on the bed, and it made something in his stomach turn to think Dean must have carried him up the stairs while he was out of it, touched him before he could get clean.

"I…I want a shower."

Dean nodded, his lips pressed tight together.

"Sam, honey-" He looked over at the doorway, saw Missouri standing there with her hands covering her mouth.

Dean shot her a sharp look. "Missouri, I think Sam would appreciate some privacy while he showers."

"I'm sure he would." She met his eyes evenly. "Maybe you should step outside too, give the poor child some room to breathe."

"No." Dean didn't pause to think about it, didn't even bother looking at her as he snapped out his reply.

"No?"

"No. No, I am not going to step outside and leave Sam alone." Sam watched as Dean stood, facing off with the older woman. "It's _my_ job to look after him."

Missouri's hand fell away from her face, her jaw tightening. Sam closed his eyes, expecting the start of yet another fight. He was surprised to hear her voice, gentle and soothing. "Sam, sweetie, you _call me _if you need anything. I'll be right downstairs. I'll make you some soup for when you're done in the shower." With a last disdainful look in Dean's direction, she turned and left.

Alone in the room with Sam, Dean stood awkwardly by the door. His gaze fell to the left of Sam's shoulder, like he couldn't quite bring himself to meet his eyes.

Sam pushed himself to his feet quickly, ignoring the way his vision swam and his head seemed to pulse.

"Do you, uh, want some help? In the shower?" Dean asked, stepping back when Sam moved too close. "Or I could wait here for you. It's up to you, whatever you want."

"I'll just be a minute." Sam said softly, shuffling out of the room.

"Sam, do you…do you want to go to the hospital? Just to get checked over?"

The sentence made his muscles lock. "_No_. I-I'm fine, I don't need a hospital."

"Okay, alrightthen." Dean said, placating. "I'll just…be here, waiting."

Sam felt the weight of Dean's eyes on him as he walked down the hallway, but the older man made no move to follow him. Something occurred to Sam as he reached the bathroom door and he paused to look back. "Dean? Can you…do you mind changing the sheets on my bed? And vacuuming the carpet?"

Dean cocked his head, looking remarkably like a puppy, confused but eager to please. "Uh…sure, if you want me too. Yell if you need anything, okay?"

Sam nodded and stepped into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him. After a second's thought he latched it tight too. The window was open, and he closed that and locked it, ignoring the vein of fear that ran through him when he caught sight of the pulled shower curtain in the mirror, the space behind big enough to hold two men.

There was no one in the room with him. _Of course _there was no one in the room with him.

He still took a deep breath before pulling the curtain aside.

The only thing he found in the tub was a soggy sponge, and he let out a breathy laugh at the absurdity of his own mind, the stupid tricks it could play. No one was in the room with him, the doors and windows were locked, he was _alone_.

Turning up the water as high as it could go, he stripped his clothes off efficiently. Hoodie, then shirt, then jeans, then socks, then boxers. The same way he'd always taken his clothes off, the only way that felt _right_.

Was he _sure _the door was locked?

The thought made his heart skip a beat, and he grabbed at his discarded clothes. He'd locked it, he _knew _he'd locked it…

He shuffled over to check, holding his bundled-up clothes around his waist like a shield. The latch was firmly in place, just like it was supposed it, and he pressed down against the metal with his fingers, just to make _sure_. The breath whooshed out of him in an audible rush and he turned back to the room, shooting tiny glances at the door from the corner of his eye. Just in case it unlocked itself.

Steam was fogging up the mirror, covering his reflection in veils of grey. Sam watched his face as it was slowly obscured, until he was just a pinkish blotch surrounded by ghosts. A faint fuzz of moisture grew on his bare skin, condensing into beads of water that pooled at the hollow of his throat and itched along his arms. He closed his eyes, taking big breaths of the damp air like it could clean him from the inside out.

Somewhere outside Dean started up the vacuum, the sound making him jump a little, bringing him back to the present.

Shower. He needed to shower.

The sides of the tub were slippery as he stepped in. Missouri's bathtub was huge, an old white porcelain bowl that curved to the lines of the body. It reminded him of the tub in Stephen's sprawling mansion-house, claw-footed with a curled lip around the edge that Sam used to pretend was a boat when he was little. He'd hold on to the edges with both hands and rock back and forth until the water sloshed with the movement of his body, imagining he was in the middle of the ocean, commanding the waves, making them do as he asked.

The hard beat of water on his skull instantly soaked his hair and ran into his eyes. He realised that he was still holding onto the bundle of clothes, now dripping with water. That was okay. They were dirty too.

* * *

Dean was vacuuming. It was actually kind of soothing, pushing the vacuum back and forth over the carpet, seeing the specks of dirt disappear like magic. Considering he'd never _owned _a vacuum before, he thought he was doing a pretty good job of it.

Why Sam had asked him to vacuum in the first place was a whole other story, one that had Dean mystified. But it wasn't like he could expect Sam to be completely _rational_ right now.

He pressed the off switch, letting the hum of the vacuum cleaner die away. From down the hall the sound of water hitting skin was barely audible, but it reassured Dean all the same. He could do this, take care of Sam. He just had to take it one step at a time, be cautious, be supportive.

And then, when Sam was okay, he could hunt Gareth down and kill him. Slowly.

Sam was taking his time in the shower. Dean frowned. Surely it shouldn't take that long to wash?

He stuck his head out into the hall, glancing both ways. But the sound of the shower went on, and downstairs he heard a clang and a muttered curse as Missouri dropped something while preparing Sam's soup. Dean padded over to the closed bathroom door, pressing his ear close to it.

All he could hear was the patter of water. His fingers flirted with the door handle. Would Sam freak out if he just walked in? Should he call through the door first? Unless Sam was already freaking out, being alone for the first time since... Dean's mind flashed back to that alleyway, to the sight of Sam scrubbing at his own skin so hard he left rug-burn.

The door opening suddenly was the last thing Dean expected. He jumped back in surprise, stumbling over his own feet and hitting the wall.

"Sam!"

Sam stood in the doorway, his face bright pink from the heat of the water and his hair slicked back. He'd used what looked like every towel in the house, wrapping them around his waist and neck and chest so the only parts of his body showing were his bare feet.

"Dean? What-what're you doing?"

"I, uh…" Dean scratched at his temple. "I was just, checking, y'know…"

Sam pursed his lips tight. "Checking?"

"Yeah. I just thought…I just wanted to…make sure you were okay?" Dean chewed at his lip, hating the embarrassed flush rising on his cheeks. Of course the kid wasn't _okay_, he had just been _attacked by a psycho_.

Sam started walking back to his room, his hands clinging to the towels around his chest like they would protect him. "I'm fine. I just…need some sleep."

Dean trailed after him, pausing in the doorway to Sam's room. "Oh, yeah, okay, I'll…" The door closed in his face. "I'll get your clothes from the bathroom." He finished quietly, sparing one last look at the door.

He walked back to the open bathroom door. And stopped at the threshold, his stomach lurching.

The plug hole in the bathtub was stuffed with the clothes Sam had been wearing, a pool of water about a foot deep still filling the tub. Floating on the surface of the water were empty bottles of shampoo, shower gel, bath salts, mouthwash, toothpaste tubes. Every cleaning-based product Missouri had kept in her bathroom, used up and floating. The painted walls, the mirror and windows, the tiles on the floor, everything glistened with water and popping soap bubbles, like someone had hosed down the entire room.

Like someone had wanted it all to _be clean_.

Dean took a moment to turn the water off, feeling eternally grateful that Missouri didn't keep bleach in her bathroom, and then he turned and ran back to Sam's bedroom door.

"Sam? Sammy, can I come in?"

A muffled thud.

"Sam?" Dean held his breath, listening intently. But there was no reply, no movement behind the door. He turned the handle and let it swing open.

Sam sat on the floor, his back against the bed. His arms were wrapped around his legs, drawn up tight to his chest, and only a glimpse of his dark eyes was visible over his bare knees. He'd pulled on a pair of boxers, but apparently that was as far as he'd gotten in dressing himself. The towels lay discarded all over the room.

Sam looked wild, terrified like a cornered animal. Dean was able to feel the kid's emotions from across the room, he was strung out so tightly. He didn't say anything, avoiding Dean's eyes, but his fingers were twitching where they gripped his elbows, squeeze-release-squeeze-releasing, the movements so tiny Dean thought at first it was a trick of the light.

"Do I-do I do something?" Sam suddenly spoke, his voice small and afraid. But he sounded _lucid_, with it, which was more than Dean had expected after seeing the state of the bathroom. Cautiously he moved closer to the pathetic huddle of Sam, crouching down to him and cocking his head in silent question. "Do I do something to…lead people on? Make them think…"

"What?" Dean frowned. The question was about the _last _thing he'd been expecting from Sam.

"That guy, in the bar. Tristan. He thought…he thought that I wanted to have sex in the bathroom. And I couldn't tell that he was…flirting with me. I didn't _know_…and then he thought that I…that I'd been…leading him on or something. I didn't mean to, but obviously I was doing _something_. And then, tonight, Gareth thought that I wanted… What if there's some…mysterious _thing _I've been doing without realising it, and some other guy is going to think I'm coming onto him?"

"Sammy…" Dean breathed. "Sam, I promise you, you're not doing anything. Tristan, he was just a guy who thought he could get lucky. He just…he picked the wrong guy to try it on with. _He _was the one who saw things that weren't there, not you.

"But kid, you can't even compare…" He sucked in a deep breath, tentatively moving to sit on the floor beside Sam, making sure there was a good foot of space between the two of them, just in case. "Sam, Gareth's a fucking _monster_. A psychopath. He's no different to the things we hunt, except he happens to be human. He didn't care what you wanted."

"But I'm the one who followed him! Gareth just _told _me to come with him, and I did it without even thinking!" Sam raised a fist to his face, rubbing the knuckles at his eyes furiously. Dean could see the suspicious wetness that smeared over his cheekbones. "I'm just…so fucked up. I couldn't even tell…" His breath hitched.

"Sammy…" Dean whispered.

But Sam shook his head roughly, his wet bangs flicking water in Dean's face. His fingers clenched and then let go, leaving red handprints in the skin of his upper arms. "I'm gonna go to bed now."

Dean swallowed hard, nodded when Sam looked at him for a response. He pushed himself to his feet, watching as Sam made a concerted effort to act normal, pulling on a thin tee shirt, turning down the bed covers, setting the alarm on his cell – an act that Dean knew was mostly for his benefit.

He faltered with his finger on the lamp switch, his breath hitching.

"Dean?" Sam looked almost unbearably young, a lost and frightened little boy.

Dean caught himself before he could touch Sam. The kid wanted to prove that he was okay, even if it was obviously the furthest thing from the truth. Touching him would take away that thin illusion. But Dean would be damned if he was just going to _walk away _and leave Sam alone for the night. He took a deep breath and prepared to sacrifice his manly pride. Not surprisingly, it wasn't hard to do. "Can I…can I stay here tonight, kiddo? Just so I don't worry. I'll sleep in the chair…"

The tension in Sam's shoulders released and he answered before Dean could finish. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense… Betaed by the wonderful Phx :)

THANK YOU to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I can't tell you how glad (and relieved) I am to hear that the majority of people are enjoying the story and feel that I'm handling the subject sensitively. I know I've taken the story in a darker direction than the first two stories, but I really do appreciate everyone who has given this story a chance :)

Chapter 15

For a few blissful seconds before Sam opened his eyes in the morning, he thought his life was pretty good. Bad stuff had happened to him, sure, but right now there was a patch of sunlight warming his cheek, the smell of frying bacon drifting up the stairs and the gentle brush of Dean's steady breaths at the back of his neck. It was good.

Dean shifted in his sleep, his fingers contracting on Sam's hip. Abruptly, he was thrown back into that alley, thick probing fingers leaving invisible stains on his body. Sam's breathing stuttered, his muscles locking into place. He couldn't _move_, couldn't get away, his mind whiting out in panic. He laid there, in Dean's arms, his body stiff as a board, and he hated himself.

Dean was _safe_, goddamnit! Dean was supposed to be the guy who protected him, held him, comforted him. His touch wasn't supposed to make Sam's skin crawl in horror.

"Sammy…" Dean mumbled, his arm slipping around Sam's waist, squeezing tighter.

Sam shoved it away, sitting up quickly. "I…I thought you were gonna sleep on the chair?"

It was easy to pinpoint the moment it all came back to Dean. His eyes went wide, and he was off the bed in a heartbeat, his hands held up in a sign of surrender. "I was sitting on the bed while you were…I must've fallen asleep. I'm sorry, Sam, I'm so sorry-" Sam felt as if someone had wrapped a band of iron around his rib cage, winching it tighter with every slow moment that passed. He couldn't bring himself to meet Dean's eyes for longer than a few seconds.

They were interrupted by Missouri knocking on the door. She stepped in without waiting for a response, and Sam felt absurdly grateful for her presence breaking the tension.

"Oh, you boys are up." She spared a glance for Dean and then ignored him, focusing all of her attention on Sam. "How are you feeling, honey?" She didn't attempt to touch him, but he could feel the sadness and sympathy in her gaze like a dead weight on his back.

"I'm okay. Really. I'll be fine."

"Sam, I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do? Would you like anything?"

Sam fisted his hands in the bed sheets, pulling them up against his chest. "No. No, thanks. I-I just wanna…stay in my room for a while."

Missouri nodded, sitting herself down on the edge of the bed. "Of course, honey. Shall I bring you up some food? I'm making bacon and eggs."

The thought of food made that band around his chest contract. He shook his head. "I'm fine. Thanks."

He caught the tiny frown that appeared on her face before she could hide it. It was only when he was presented with her blank expression that he realised the lines around her mouth were still there. Had they been there before he arrived, or was it his presence, his problems that had aged her so quickly? He couldn't remember, and a sob rose in his throat like a hiccup. He swallowed it before he could escape, pulling on a smile that must have looked like a ridiculous parody of happiness.

"Sam, you should eat something. I'll make you some toast."

"He said he didn't want anything." Dean's voice was hard, but Sam heard the thread of desperation in it.

Missouri didn't even deign to look at the older man. She stood, smiling sadly at Sam. "I'll bring you up a tray. Try to eat, sweetie." And then she was gone, shutting the door quietly behind her. Leaving him alone with Dean.

The older man cleared his throat, scratching at the back of his neck. "Uh… How do you feel? I mean, is there anything…can I do anything?"

Sam shook his head mutely. A pile of worn clothes lay on the floor a few feet from his bed and he reached for them, keeping the bed sheets in place with one hand. He managed to snag a crumpled shirt, pulling it on over his tee shirt quickly. "I'm fine, Dean. Really."

"Fine." Dean sounded unconvinced. "Look, Sam," he took a step forward, "you're probably…scared, and confused, and freaked out. And I have no clue what to do, how to…make it better. So you gotta talk to me, man. You gotta tell me how I can help you."

Sam shrugged, keeping his head down. "Just…treat me like normal. I'll be okay, Dean. I've survived worse, remember. I just want everything to be like normal."

Dean let out a loud whooshing breath. "Okay. Okay, I can do that."

"Good." Sam risked a peek at the other man through his bangs.

"Alright, well, I'm gonna make some phone calls. You want me to step outside while you get dressed?"

"Phone calls to who?"

Dean's eyes darkened. "Some guys I know. They can track Gareth down for us."

"_What_?" Sam's head snapped up. "I thought you were gonna leave it alone!"

"When the fuck did I say that?" Dean's face stretched into an expression of incredulity. "He's gonna _pay_, Sam. I'm not just gonna let him getaway with what he did!"

"You can't, Dean! Please, just _leave it_. For me."

"Why?" A mix of anger and honest confusion coloured the words.

"Because…" Sam looked down at his hands, lying palm-up in his lap. "Just because."

The sound of Dean swallowing loudly was followed by the creak of the armchair in the corner of the room. When Sam looked over, he saw Dean sat hunched forward with his hands fisted in his hair. His grip was hard enough to turn his fingertips white. "He should die, Sam. He…he touched you. He needs to die for that."

Sam sighed. "Look, man, you're pissed, I get it-"

He was interrupted when Dean brought his hand down on the arm of tin a chair in a loud slap. The sudden noise made Sam jerk. "No, Sam, you don't get it! God, why are you not _angry_ about this? The guy tried to _rape you_! What if I'd found you five minutes later?"

Sam ignored the shiver of horror that ran through his nerves at the blunt word – _rape_. He'd avoided naming it, thinking it. "But you didn't, Dean! You stopped him!"

"What if he tries it again, Sam? What if he decides he likes the look of some other kid, and the next time he tries it he gets away with it?

Sam squeezed his eyes closed, feeling phantom hands brushing his skin, his arms, the waistband of his jeans. "Don't you think I've thought of that? Don't you think I want him dead just as much as you do?" He must have looked like he was in pain, because suddenly Dean was on the floor beside the bed, hesitantly stroking a gentle hand over his cheek. The touch didn't repulse him, and a tiny spark of relief curled in Sam's gut. Maybe he wasn't broken forever after all. He opened his eyes, turning to the other man. "Dean, going after Gareth isn't the way. _Killing _him, you shouldn't…have to live with that for the rest of your life."

Sam could see the newly-formed lines around Dean's eyes, like he was squinting into the sun. "I can't let him get away with that. Not that. Not…hurting you."

"We have to. I hate it, I do, but…I can't let you do that. Not…"

"Not for you?" Dean said, his voice without infliction. Sam looked down, hearing Dean's pained sigh. "Christ, kid. I wish you'd…" He trailed off, his lips pressed tight together.

"Dean?" Sam said tentatively. When Dean didn't say anything, didn't even look up at him, Sam continued speaking softly. "Dean, please, listen to me. You can't do it. This guy, he deserves to die, but it's not up to us to kill him. It's not right, and you know it. I'm begging you, _please_, let it go. For me."

Dean was still for a long moment. Then he stood suddenly, slammed both fists against the top of the dresser.

"Dean!"

"That fucker! That fucking…_ Christ_, I can't…" He looked almost tearful, and Sam frowned, uncomprehending. And then Dean's face crumpled completely, shattering into pieces. His hands clutched at his hair like he wanted to tear it out, to dig fingers into his own skull.

Sam pushed the covers and stood up, feeling exposed in only boxers. He grabbed Dean's hand, spinning the older man to face him, and before the fear could catch up with him, pressed a hard kiss to Dean's slack mouth.

It was like kissing a statue, which, oddly enough, made it easier. Less real. Dean let it happen for a second and then pulled away, blinking in shock. "Sam, what…"

"Please. _Promise me_ you won't do this. Promise me you won't touch him."

Dean stared at him, his eyes wide like he was in agony. "Sam, don't make me…"

"_Please_, Dean."

He half-stifled a sob, broken in the middle. Sam sucked his cheeks in tight, keeping his own emotions reined in. He held Dean's gaze, not giving the other man a chance to break away. Finally, Dean dropped his head.

"Okay." He spoke in a whisper, dry like an old man. "I promise you. I won't touch him."

Missouri's entrance interrupted them. She backed into the room, the tray in her arms carrying a plate of scrambled eggs and toast. "I know you said you didn't want any breakfast, but I thought I'd bring you some eggs with your toast. You should try and eat, honey, you need to keep your strength up."

Sam managed a weak smile in her direction. "Thanks, Missouri." He saw Dean take a step back from him, and the relief he felt at the extra space made his stomach turn. He'd been _okay_, he'd touched Dean and been touched, he'd even _kissed _him. But there was no denying the instinctive tense of his muscles when he'd turned away from Dean, like maybe the other man would become someone else when he wasn't looking.

"Don't thank me, sweetie, just eat it." She softened her words with a smile. "I'll sit with you, if Dean wants to step out and change clothes."

Dean's lip curled and he took a step towards her. Sam could see him building up for a fight, just to be contrary. He interrupted before Dean could start. "Thanks, I'd like that. Just while Dean's changing."

"Are you sure, Sam?" Dean asked, his face drawn tight.

"It's fine. You can change, take a shower. I'll be okay." He smiled weakly. "Seriously, man. You should change. Your clothes kinda stink."

Dean looked down at himself, as if he'd only just realised he was still wearing the same clothes he'd been wearing last night. "Okay." He backed toward the door reluctantly. "You'll call if you need me?"

"Of course. Go. Change."

He waited until Dean was gone to draw a shaky breath, sinking down to the bed behind him.

"It's going to be okay, you know." Missouri said softly. "Maybe it doesn't feel like it, but you have people who care about you. I know Dean isn't…dealing with it too well…" She trailed off, and Sam looked up.

"What do you mean, Dean isn't dealing with it well? Is there…have you read something from him?"

She pressed her lips together, taking a moment before replying. "Well, it was traumatic for the both of you. It's not surprising that he's…so angry."

Sam looked down at his hands. "Oh."

"Eat your breakfast, honey. I'll be here." She smiled at him, like a mother would.

* * *

Dean peeked around the bedroom door, watching Sam sitting with his back against the headboard of the bed, a shapeless shirt hanging off his shoulders. It was one of Dean's, worn thin and soft. Sam wore the sleeves rolled up to mid-elbow. The tray of food was in the vee of Sam's crossed legs, and as Dean watched he poked at it with his fork, a tiny frown of concentration creasing his forehead. Sunlight filtered through the window, stroking his hair and the skin of Sam's forearms like a lover, lighting him up and making him glow. Missouri sat serenely in the armchair, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

Sam ducked his head as he took a tiny sip of juice, and Dean stared with an ache in his heart. Sam hadn't gotten a haircut for a while – no time, not with the demon on their trail – and the back was getting shaggy, curling around the vulnerable nape of his neck. Dean's resolved wavered; he'd made Sam a promise, and breaking it would hurt him.

There was a dark patch on the side of Sam's neck, no bigger than a quarter. Dean squinted, trying to see without letting Sam know he was there. His eyes widened when he realised.

A bruise. A _bite-mark_. That fucking bastard had left a bite- mark on Sam's neck.

Dean stepped away from the door, heading downstairs and into the kitchen as quietly as he could. He shut the door behind him, leaning his body against it as he lifted his cell phone to his ear and hit dial without hesitation. Tim Rook picked up after two rings, a gravely voice in his ear. The guy was ex-marine, a friend of his dad's. Dean hadn't talked to him in twelve years, since his dad worked a job involving a coven of witches in St Louis. John never talked about that case, but Dean had been able to read the grey in his eyes.

"Dean Winchester." Tim spoke in his ear, sounding not a bit surprised.

"Tim. Didn't know if you'd remember me or not."

"Never forget a face." Tim didn't ask why he was calling, didn't waste time on niceties. Dean appreciated it.

"Listen Tim, I need something done for me."

"Figured."

"There's a guy, name of Gareth. He's a hunter, big guy, face all scarred up. Drives a black truck. I need him tracked down."

"Not much to go on."

"You can do it. I know you've done this shit before."

Tim didn't pause. "Want him dead?"

"Not dead. I just need to know where he is." Dean said, forcing the words out through a stiff jaw. "I'll take care of the rest."

"Cost you."

"Anything."

"If I said I wanted that car of yours?"

"Done." Dean didn't even have to think.

Tim laughed in his ear, whiskey-burned throat a rasp dry as a desert. "Don't need a car. Need a pint of human blood though. Fresh."

Dean closed his eyes, his mind flickering through all the rituals that required human blood. None of them led to anything good. "Okay."

"Okay." Tim echoed, laconic like he didn't care either way. "Be in Pittsburg, three days time. I'll have your guy by then." He hung up, leaving Dean listening to empty air.

* * *

Dean was downing his second mug of hot coffee when a tap on the kitchen door startled him out of his thoughts. The door was opened before he could call out.

"But momma, I wanna go to the park!"

"We're visiting Missouri today, sweetheart. Maybe another day." Margaret appeared, her voice hoarse and her hair untidy. She was holding Kiera's small hand tightly in one of hers, guiding Charlie inside with the other.

Kiera opened her mouth to start a new protest when she caught sight of Dean by the counter. Her face immediately brightened and she ran toward him, arms outstretched. "Dean!"

He pulled on a smile for the little girl. She was wearing a pink ballerina costume today, satin slippers on her feet and a frizzy tutu sticking out around her waist. "Hey, honey."

She grabbed him around the waist, squeezing him in a hug.

Margaret smiled at him. "Hi, Dean. Is Missouri around?"

"Uh," Dean glanced at the closed kitchen door. Spilling the news of Sam's attack to a woman he'd known a week was at the bottom of his list of things to do, but he got the feeling Missouri would tell Margaret anyway. And if she didn't, the sight of Sam covered in cuts and bruises and goddamned _bite-marks _would definitely tell Margaret that something had happened. "Look, there's…something you should probably know."

Margaret obviously read something in his expression, because a second later she was shooing the children into the living room to play.

Dean watched Kiera complaining, Charlie's quiet acquiescence, Margaret's tired frown as she argued with her children. He wondered what it would be like to be _normal_, his thoughts wandering back to those vague dreams he'd held so close only ten years ago. In Elmstead he'd come to the realisation that normal was mostly monotony and hard work, but he saw the love in Margaret's eyes as she gently stroked Kiera's curls and straightened the strap of Charlie's blue dungarees. Maybe normal would be better, better than fighting and watching people get hurt. Maybe he and Sam could have the same kind of normal that Margaret had with her kids, someday.

"What is it? What's happened, Dean?" Margaret appeared in front of him suddenly.

"Uh…" He blinked, the words stuck in his throat. "Would you like a coffee?"

"Okay." She nodded slowly, worry in her eyes.

He turned and busied himself making another cup, pouring out milk and sugar, finding a clean spoon. Anything to put off _saying it_.

"Dean, what's wrong? Is it…is it Missouri?"

He shook his head, placing the mug in front of her and sitting at the table. He gestured to the empty chair beside him and she sat too, hesitant like she was waiting for him to lash out at something.

"Last night," he began, staring into his half-empty mug, "last night, Sam was… Sam was attacked. At a bar. A guy…assaulted him."

"Oh my god." Margaret said softly. He looked up; she had a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. "Is he alright? What happened?"

"We went for a drink with this guy I know, and…while my back was turned, the guy…" Tears pricked at his eyes, the words forming a lump in his throat. "It was my fault. It was _my fault_, goddamnit! I took him to the fucking bar, I let that guy get close to him!"

"Dean…" Margaret laid a gentle hand on his fist, clenched white on the tabletop.

"I should've protected him! I should've…"

"Dean, I'm sure you did everything you could."

"I should have done _more_!"

Margaret shook her head, her own eyes bright with unshed tears. "I _know _you did all you could. I've seen the way you take care of Sam. You wouldn't have done anything less than your best."

"But it still happened!" He banged his other fist on the table, enough for it to hurt. "I should have been there to stop it. Instead I was worrying about my fucking _car_, and when I found him…"

"When you found him…what?"

Dean met her eyes, and the kindness he saw there hollowed out all his anger, leaving him empty. He didn't deserve kindness. "The guy was about to…"

"But…he didn't?" She asked tentatively, her hand squeezing his.

Dean shook his head. "I interrupted before he could." He said bitterly.

"Then you saved Sam." She nodded, firm. "You saved him before something terrible could happen, and I'm sure he knows that. You just need to…talk to him. Reassure him, and reassure yourself, that you're both gonna be okay."

Dean closed his eyes, his head stuffed up and aching.

A gentle tap on the kitchen doorframe made him turn, swallowing the emotion. Missouri stood in the doorway, Sam's picked-at breakfast tray balanced on one arm. He took a breath, pushing the chair back to stand.

"It's okay, Dean." Missouri said before he could get up. "Charlie's with Sam. I think he was hoping Sam would play cars again."

* * *

Sam sat on the bed, his eyes half-closed. Missouri had finally given up on waiting for him to eat the congealed mess he'd made of his breakfast, taking the tray back downstairs. He was kind of glad to be left alone. To not have to smile and hide, pretend to be bearing up under the weight of everything. He was out of practise pretending.

A quiet sniffle from the doorway made him start, his head snapping up and the beginnings of panic burning through his veins.

Charlie stood in the hall, a toy car gripped tightly in one hand. He was looking up at Sam with wide eyes.

Sam pushed the panic away, pulling on that tired smile. "Hey, Charlie."

"Hi." Charlie said, chewing on his thumb.

"What's up?"

The little boy held out the car in one hand. "Play cars?"

The smile on Sam's face became more genuine. "Yeah, sure. C'mon in, kiddo."

Charlie didn't need to be asked twice, running across the carpet and throwing himself bodily onto the bed. Sam narrowly avoided kicking him in the face as he tried to move his legs out of the way. A slightly gooey toy car was dropped in Sam's lap, another three appearing from various pockets in Charlie's dungarees.

"You're the red one."

"Cool." Sam nodded, discreetly wiping the sticky stuff off on the sheets. "So, what're we playing?"

"The cars are goin' up the mountain."

Sam frowned. "What mountain?"

Charlie didn't look up, crawling around the bed on his hands and knees, industriously piling the blankets onto Sam's legs. Once they'd been arranged to his specifications, he prodded Sam in the thigh. "Up."

"Huh?"

Charlie waved both arms in the air. "Up!"

Sam hesitantly bent his knees so his feet were flat on the mattress. "Like that?"

"Yep." Charlie nodded, a solemn look on his face. "It's a mountain."

"Okay."

They pushed the cars around for a while, tracing crease-paths up the 'mountain', Charlie poking Sam whenever he moved his legs, breaking and reforming the paths. The feel of tiny wheels tickled his legs. It took him a moment to realise that the touch wasn't freaking him out.

It wasn't much, but it eased a little of his fear. If he could handle one unthreatening touch, he could get used to others, right?

"Dean's sad." Charlie said suddenly, his eyes still focused on the car scaling the vertical cliff face of Sam's calf.

Sam blinked. "Huh?"

"Dean's sad." Charlie repeated. "And cross, 'cause he thinks the bad man was his fault. Mama said it wasn't."

"What?" Sam's fingers clenched on the car, tiny wheels digging into his palm. "Where…where did you hear that?"

"Dean said."

Sam swallowed hard. He felt ashamed suddenly, hearing the words coming out of Charlie's mouth, an innocent child talking about things he'd probably overheard but should know nothing about.

"Wasn't Dean's fault." Charlie said again, shuffling over to drive the car back down the side of Sam's leg. "Was the bad man's fault."

"Yeah." Sam nodded dazedly. "The…bad man."

Charlie suddenly looked up, meeting Sam's eyes. "Dean's gonna try an' hurt the bad man. But he shouldn't. He shouldn't go away."

Sam was still reeling five minutes later when Dean appeared to tell Charlie his mom wanted to go.

* * *

"Hey, Sammy." Dean stood in the doorway, scratching at the back of his neck and looking like he didn't know whether to come in or leave Sam alone. Sam tried a welcoming smile from his position sat cross-legged on the bed. "You doin' okay, kiddo?"

"Yep." Sam nodded. And he was. He'd asked to be alone for a while, and while Dean had been anything but happy about it, he'd acquiesced. For the most part, anyway; Sam had heard him listening outside the door every few minutes, trying to be quiet and give him the space he'd asked for.

"So…can I get you anything? Food, something to drink?"

"I'm good."

"Good." Dean echoed. It was awkward, more awkward than the night before and the morning had been.

"Um. Do you want to sit?"

"Yeah." Dean nodded, eager. And then paused, his eyes darting between the foot of the bed and the armchair. "Uh, where…"

"The chair." Dean's face dropped a little, but he sat, leaning his elbows on his knees. Sam smiled again, trying to convey how grateful he was to the older man.

Dean sucked in a loud breath, his eyes trailing around the room, looking everywhere that Sam wasn't. Finally he cleared his throat, meeting Sam's eyes. "So… Margaret told me I should talk to you. If…if you wanna talk, that is? You don't have to…"

Sam swallowed hard. "I…I don't think… I'm not sure I'm ready. To talk about it."

"Oh. Okay." Dean's head dropped.

"Not yet. It's… Uh, maybe we could talk about something else?" He felt like shit; Dean had done so much for him already, and he couldn't give him the one thing he asked for. But he couldn't, _couldn't _talk about it yet. "Uh, how's Margaret?"

Dean pasted on a plastic smile. "She's good. Fine. Good."

"That's…good."

"Yep." Dean nodded slowly. He opened his mouth, shut it again as whatever topic he was going to bring up was dismissed. Opened his mouth again, shut it again.

"Dean, you don't have to…"

"Have to what?" The older man sat back in the chair, worry passing over his face. "Don't have to what?"

"_Try _so hard. C'mon, we can talk. We've done it before, remember?" The pale attempt at humour fell flat. Sam was suddenly scared. What if that connection he'd always had with Dean was gone? What if it'd been destroyed by what had happened the night before, and they could never get it back?

Panicking, Sam jumped to his feet, crossing the floor to the chair and Dean.

"Sam?"

Sam didn't reply. Instead he pressed the older man back against the seat, arms on either side of his head, pinning him in place. Dean opened his mouth to speak but before he could, Sam was licking into the space between his lips, hard and messy. Dean let out a little grunt in protest, his hands trying half-heartedly to lever Sam away.

The older man turned his head, Sam's lips smearing over his cheek, and gasped out; "Sam, Sammy…You don't need to do this. It's okay, you don't need to do it."

A shudder ran up Sam's spine. He dropped to his knees in front of Dean, pressing one palm to the other man's leg.

"Sammy, it's okay." Dean was whispering, a tentative hand hovering above his head. "It's okay, it's gonna be okay. I'm here. It's gonna be okay."

He looked up, meeting Dean's eyes. Feeling the tears forming in his own. "You promise?"

Dean took a visible breath, and then brushed his fingertips over Sam's forehead, the lightest possible touch. It felt like a whisper, a secret. Unthreatening. His eyes fluttered closed and he breathed for what felt like the first time since _it_ had happened. Dean's words drifted over him. "I promise, Sam. I'll make it okay."


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense… Betaed by the wonderful Phx :)

Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, your comments really do inspire me :) Unfortunately the next chapter might be a little late - I won't give a set update day, but I'll do my best to get it done as soon as possible, so look out for it :)

Chapter 16

_Hands, touching. Hands, creeping, crawling, skittering bug-like all over his skin, under his clothes, brushing against him like spider's webs and leaving traces that will never wash away. Only two hands, but it feels like twenty, like thirty, like a hundred. Like they're all over him and he's never going to escape._

"_Gonna be screaming while I do you…"_

Sam woke up with the scream stuck in his throat, his body slick with sweat and grease under a double layer of clothing. The bed sheets were twisted around his legs and he kicked them away, swallowing the fear and panic. His hands and feet were bare under the bed covers, and as the night air hit them Sam shivered.

A gentle snort from the armchair startled him, and for a second his heart clenched tight. But the person-shaped shadow slouched ungracefully against the cushions didn't make any sudden movements, didn't lunge at him, didn't try to hurt him. Sam reached out with a shaking hand to switch on the lamp beside his bed. The light revealed Dean still in his jeans and shirt, his legs stretched out in front of him and his head propped unsteadily on his hand. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open, a thin line of drool stretching from his lower lip. As Sam watched Dean drew in a long breath, letting it out again with a snort. The drool joined a growing puddle on the arm of Missouri's chair.

Dean had started the night in his own room. Sam knew this because it had been him who insisted, him who fixed Dean with a determined look and told him that he would be okay, he needed to get used to being alone again. And it _had_ been okay; Sam had only got out of bed to check the latch on the window three times. The mild panic attack that had crept up on him after hearing Missouri creeping downstairs for a glass of water could have happened to anyone.

Who the hell was he trying to kid?

Letting out a heavy sigh, Sam hunched forward on the bed, pressing his hands to his face. His hair was matted, painful little tangles that wouldn't unknot even when he tried to run his fingers through them.

Outside the house, the sound of crunching gravel as a car backed out of a driveway made Sam's heart start to race, even though he _knew _what it was, _knew _it wasn't a threat to him. He stared hard at the window, a black rectangle of glass that was suddenly and briefly illuminated by headlights before fading back to black.

This was ridiculous. He was _Sam Miller_, for Christ's sake, he'd found monsters and demons and ghosts, lived through sixteen years of his dad, handled pain and fear and panic and goddamn _torture_. He was going to get a handle on this too.

Clenching his jaw, he climbed out of bed. He was going to get up, take a shower, clean his teeth and change the bedcovers, and he _was not _going to let this beat him.

The closed door to the bedroom presented the first hurdle. He reached out, making his fingers take hold of the cool metal handle. Deep breath – he could _do _this, and he turned it, hearing the quiet click as it unlatched. Another deep breath and he pulled it open, telling himself it was _fine_, there was no one waiting outside in the dark, waiting for him to step outside.

The hallway, as expected, was empty, a faint light cast from the streetlight outside the window making dark shadows on the walls and floor. He took one step, then another, then another, and he was _doing it_, he was controlling his fear and doing it. The bathroom door was two steps away. Deliberately turning his back to the staircase, he walked calmly to the door, opened it and jumped inside the room, spinning around to face whoever might have sneaked up behind him.

Dead air. There was no one there, of course. He let out a shaky breath and closed the door, locking it behind him and turning on the light.

He turned on the water and undressed, his movements sharp and economic. His reflection in the mirror made him start for a moment and he paused, meeting his own eyes. His face was pale, dark rings circling his eyes like stains. There was a reddened graze high on his left cheekbone. He stepped closer, frowning and tilting his head to see it better.

_Pressed face-first into the wall, the hard brick biting into the side of his face. His cheek burned, like the first time he'd tried shaving…_

Sam blinked the memory away. He touched the patch of scabbed skin gently, stroking fingertips over it. It stung a little. He hadn't realised he'd been walking around with scratches, visible proof of what had happened to him.

The shower hissed behind him, and he took a deep breath. It didn't matter. The scars – both physical and mental – were going to heal. It was the memories he needed to deal with.

Staring into his own eyes, Sam's fingers tightened on the basin of the sink and he swallowed convulsively. There was one memory in particular. One he hadn't wanted to deal with, not at all.

The brief snatch that had come back to him as Gareth had been…

The big grey man that had been taking his pyjamas off when he was six years old. His dad's face as he'd stepped in and caught them.

Sam's breath stuttered. Had that actually happened? Or had it been something his mind had made up? It didn't _feel _as real, felt like something half-remembered, an old movie he'd once seen, or a nightmare he'd had. It wasn't like he could _ask _anyone, call Gareth up and say 'hey, so did you try to molest me when I was a kid?' If he mentioned it to Dean, the older man would freak out all over again.

The only other person who might be able to give him some answers was Jim Miller himself, but Sam wasn't about to hunt his father down just to provide Jim with even more ammunition to use to hurt him.

He'd just have to go on like he had been, dealing with it the best he could. Forgetting the rest.

It was hard keeping the memories out of the shower though. Even his own hands felt strange and foreign on his skin, but he forced them to touch dispassionately, to wash and clean. He didn't allow himself to hurry, to rush the places he felt most uncomfortable. Exposure was good. Getting used to his own touch again was the first step to getting used to _being _touched.

After the sweat was washed from his body, he stepped out, wrapping a single towel around his waist. He cleaned his teeth without meeting his own eyes in the mirror, but once he was done it still felt like an accomplishment. Like he was getting somewhere. His reflection smiled at him, a small but genuine curve of lips, and it encouraged him.

He stood there, unwilling to break the moment. He was _proud _of himself, and so what if it was for such a tiny thing as taking a shower without anyone standing guard outside? Dean would be proud of him too. Sam's smile grew and he watched it in the mirror, one side of his mouth pulled higher than the other in that slightly bashful, but oh-so-familiar grin.

_That_ grin always appeared on his face when Dean pulled off some impossible feat or the other and then looked at Sam with his _oh-my-god-I'm-so-fucking-brilliant-they-should-build-temples-in-my-name _expression. The last time he'd seen it had been a few months ago; an angry spirit had Sam pinned to the outer wall of a church by the throat, its arm poised to dig into his chest and rip out his lungs. They'd used their last rock-salt round, Sam was hardly in a position to recite an exorcism he knew by heart but Dean could barely remember the first line of, and Sam had closed his eyes, preparing for unbearable pain. He'd opened them a few seconds later when a body hit him from _behind_, the momentum throwing him straight through the spirit and onto the ground. The spirit had dissolved in a wrenching scream, and Sam had found himself pinned to the ground by Dean's weight, the both of them covered in coloured glass and chunks of soldered metal. Sam had performed the exorcism and they'd escaped back to the motel before the cops could come and question them about vandalism of church property.

When Sam asked about it later, Dean had shrugged and explained that he'd realised the stained-glass window above Sam was held together with iron, so he broke into the rectory, ran around to the window and smashed his way through it, scattering the iron pieces all over to repel the spirit. He said it in such a matter-of-fact, _isn't it obvious? _way that Sam had blinked, completely thrown. And then that face came out, Dean practically bursting on _just how awesome he was._ The night had ended with celebratory Chinese take-out and a Die Hard marathon, Dean bouncing with manic energy on one of the beds, reciting the movie line-by-line.

Dean always saved him. Sam's smile wavered. If the older man were there, he would tell Sam that 'no, they saved each other, like partners do'.

But there was only so much Dean could do. Some of it, Sam had to fix by himself. He nodded to himself in the mirror, putting on an expression of resolve, and turned to unlock the bathroom door. He was going to go to his bedroom, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. He was going to put on clean boxers and a tee shirt, and he was going to do it _knowing _that nothing and no one would hurt him.

He got two steps down the hall before panicking and running the rest of the way, throwing himself inside the bedroom and closing the door on imaginary pursuing shadows. Pressing his forehead to the cool wood, he let out a long sigh. At least he'd made it halfway there.

The next challenge was sleep. In the dark. Knowing the nightmares were waiting for him.

"Sam."

The voice made him lurch forward in surprise, almost breaking his nose on the door. He turned, assuming Dean had woken up. But the older man was still snoring into his hand in the armchair.

Sam spun wildly, eyes darting to every corner and dark shadow in the room.

No one was there, nothing was moving.

He was _sure _he'd heard a voice call his name. He frowned, trying to calm his racing heart. He was _sure_…wasn't he? He whispered an experimental "Christo," but no demons appeared, nothing lunged to attack him. Tiptoeing over to the window, he rechecked the lock and the line of salt. Both were undisturbed.

Slumped in the chair, Dean slept on oblivious. Sam felt pathetic admitting it, even to himself, but he was glad the older man was there. His presence was a stabilizing force, something to be relied upon when everything else was in turmoil. Sam thought maybe it was finally starting to sink in. Dean was here. Dean was here and he wasn't going anywhere, no matter what crazy shit Sam threw at him.

The thought calmed him.

He pulled his clothes on quickly, tossed the bed covers aside and climbed back into bed, switching the bedside lamp off. But something rustled as he pulled the covers up, a thin sound like wind blowing through dead leaves. He blindly felt around until his hand encountered a sheet of paper. He fished it out, frowning to himself. Had he left some of his notes tangled in the covers? He didn't remember doing any reading in bed recently.

With his free hand, he reached out for the lamp again, clicking the switch on.

In his hand was a piece of notepaper, one side torn, like it had been ripped from a book. It was written on, covered in a neat even print that Sam didn't recognise as his or Dean's. Squinting in the poor light, he read the first few lines; _first thing that should be taught is how to shield the mind from unwanted psychic attacks, using meditation techniques and visualisation…_

Probably it had slipped out of one of the old books they'd been using to research the demon, although neither him nor Dean had done any research since the attack. He put it on the bedside table, dismissing it until morning.

* * *

Dean was halfway through an unbelievably good breakfast consisting of sausages, tomatoes and fried bread with fluffy pancakes smothered in maple syrup on the side when his phone rang. Sam looked up from where he sat against the headboard of his bed, his own breakfast half-eaten on a tray in front of him. He seemed distracted, lost in his own thoughts, although it might just be sleep deprivation. Dean had stirred a few times in the night, his back all knotted up from sleeping in the armchair, and seen Sam wandering about the room. He hadn't wanted to let the kid know he was awake though; Sam had been adamant about not being babied, and it was enough for Dean to be with him in the room. If Sam needed him, he was right there.

His phone rang again, insistent.

"Are you gonna answer that?" Sam said, his head cocked to one side.

Dean looked at the screen. Tim Rook's name and number flashed up. "Uh, yeah. I'll just-" He stood, nodding at the door.

"Who is it?"

"Uh, no one important. An old friend of my dad's, thought he and Caleb might have been in contact with him."

"Oh." Sam looked down at his cooling food. "Okay. Take your time."

"Sure." Dean flashed him a quick grin and stepped outside, making sure the door was firmly closed behind him. After a moment of thought he crossed the hall to his own room; Sam wasn't the type to listen jealously at doors, but Dean wanted to be sure he wasn't overheard all the same. He flicked the phone open and held it to his ear. "Tim? Any news for me?"

"Found your guy. He's headed for Chicago, looks like. I'll keep a track on him, let you know the specifics when you get to Pittsburg with my payment."

Dean closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the door. "Okay. I'll be there as soon as I can get away."

"Three days, we said." Tim said, sounding like he could care less either way. But Dean knew this guy, knew he didn't want to be on his bad side. If he'd promised payment for a job, he better damn well hand it over.

Sam would just have to understand. He smirked without humour at the thought. Yeah, Sam would understand Dean suddenly packing up and leaving again, after everything that'd happened. As soon as the words 'I'm taking a little trip, be back soon' left Dean's mouth, Sam would understand all too well what was going down. Where Dean was going and why. But this _had _to be done, it _had _to.

"I'll be there. Just have the details ready for me."

"I will." Tim sounded vaguely amused at the thought that he might not be ready. "Safe trip." The line clicked off, and Dean was left listening to dead air.

* * *

The door had barely closed behind Dean as he stepped back into the hall, and already the shame of what he was going to do had him sagging back against it, feeling wrecked. He was going to _lie _to Sam. More than that, he was going to run away to god knows where, leaving Sam behind like he'd sworn he wouldn't do again. He felt stretched tight, pulled between two choices. Either he did this, went after Gareth and killed him like his gut was telling him, or he let the guy go and stayed to protect Sam. It was an insane situation, and he wished he could press the pause button, put everything on hold for a while, just long enough to get his head straightened out.

He wanted to tell Sam everything, tell Sam he was going to break his promise and beg his forgiveness.

No. If this was the only way, then he didn't have a choice. Gareth had to pay for what he'd done, and Sam deserved peace of mind, even if it came at a cost. The kid would be angry at Dean, so angry, but a part of him would be relieved. A part of him would be able to rest, knowing Gareth wasn't a threat anymore, and Dean _needed _to do that for Sam.

He needed to do _something_.

But was leaving the kid behind _really _the right thing to do? The last time he left Sam it hadn't worked out well, not at all. The demon was out there somewhere, and he was after Sam. The kid was vulnerable right now, dangerously so, and Dean disappearing would cut him deep. If the demon wanted to attack, then Dean was giving it the perfect opportunity.

He banged his head against the door, hard.

If he was going, there shouldn't be any secrets between him and Sam. If he was going, Sam deserved to know exactly what he was doing and why.

Dean strode back to Sam's room, banging the door open before he could convince himself not to do it. Sam looked up at the noise, his eyes wide. "Dean? What-"

"Can we take a drive? Just…around the block, or something."

Sam's expression turned considering for a split-second before it was wiped away and replaced with confusion. "What? Why?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "I just…felt like taking a drive. And, y'know, talking. To you. About stuff."

"Talking…about what?" Sam's face paled suddenly. "I'm…I'm still not ready. To talk about…that. If that's what you were gonna-"

"No, no. Um, when you _are _ready, we can talk about…it. If you want. But, I was thinkin' of…something else. Please Sam."

Sam looked at him for a long moment before nodding. "I'll get dressed."

* * *

The front door to Missouri's house was painted a cheerful yellow. There were tiny mottled glass windows set at eye-level in the top of the door, and the morning sunlight shining through them cast warm swirling patterns on the floorboards. Beside the door, a small table held a fern in a hand-painted terracotta pot, and Sam fixed his eyes on the green fronds as he made his way down the staircase.

His chest felt tight. He was about to go _outside_, for the first time since the attack.

Never mind that it was daylight, that Missouri's neighbours were probably out mowing their lawns and watching their kids play ball in the street. Never mind that Sam _knew _nothing was going to happen to him.

All the progress that he'd made last night seemed insignificant when confronted with _this_.

Dean stood in the foyer, car keys in hand, watching him expectantly. His face was a stiff blank, but Sam could see nervousness and resolve filtering through the cracks of his mask.

"Are you ready, kiddo?"

He swallowed, nodding. "Yeah. Let's go."

Dean opened the door. A warm breeze drifted in on the fresh air, making the fern fronds ripple.

Sam stood transfixed on the bottom step, his hand gripping the banister like a vice. He could see a stretch of lawn through the doorway, a scrap of sidewalk and street and the white shutters of the house opposite. It all looked normal, safe. Except everything was so _bright_. The rumble of cars, a low murmur of talk between neighbours over garden fences, the bark of a dog, it was all insanely bright and loud.

His breath hitched in his throat, an exhale that seemed to back up and try to go back down again. He opened his mouth to call to Dean, but no words would come.

The older man was halfway down the wooden porch steps before he turned to check on Sam. "Kid? You okay?"

"Uh…" He tried to say something reassuring, tell Dean he just needed a minute, but all that would follow was a moan.

"Sam? Sammy, what is it? What's wrong?" Dean strode back up the steps, coming to a halt in front of Sam. His body blocked the view of the street, and Sam felt his muscles relax a little.

"I don't think…"

"Sam, you're shaking." Dean's voice was threaded with worry.

"I don't think I can go outside." It came out funny, a high thin tone that sounded like a little kid's voice.

"Sam?" Missouri appeared from the kitchen, her face flushed like she'd been running. "Lord, sweetie, I could feel you from the end of the backyard." Sam glanced over; she was wearing green gardening gloves, dry crumbles of dirt falling unnoticed onto her clean floor.

Dean looked over at her, his eyes wide. "What? What's wrong?"

Missouri ignored him, pulling off one glove to grasp Sam's hand still curled around the banister. "It's okay, honey. It's okay, nothing's going to hurt you." She turned to Dean, her lips a thin line. "You should get him back to his room. The poor child's about ready to have a panic attack."

"Oh, god." Dean looked horrified, like he was personally responsible for Sam's irrational reactions.

"Dean, it's okay…" Sam tried, reaching out to him.

But the older man was shaking his head, backing away. "No, Jesus, what the hell was I thinking? Just…oh god, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Sam."

"It's really okay, Dean, I'm okay now-" But Missouri was hustling him back up the stairs, her hand on his back. He looked over his shoulder in time to see Dean's stricken face, watching him from the bottom of the stairs. Then Dean turned and walked out of the front door.

* * *

Dean sat in the Impala, running an absent hand around the cracked leather of the wheel. The car had always been a constant in his life, there when he had nothing else, quiet and comfortable. Sitting in the driver's seat, sagged and moulded to his body and no one else's, it reminded him of his mom in a strange way. Of the fit of her arms when she hugged him close, the soft brush of her skin on his. Of course, his idealised image of Mary Winchester elevated her to an angel in his eyes, perfect in every way, the mother of his dreams. Some of those illusions had been shattered when his dad had told him the truth of those few years they'd had before she was killed; the rows Dean couldn't remember, the angry silences he'd been happily oblivious of. But when Dean imagined his life, his future, his first thought was always 'would mom have approved?'

He wished he remembered enough about her to miss her. Wished he could come up with a plan and know for sure that his mom would have done the same thing, would be proud of him.

He was pretty sure his mom would _not _have approved of him running off to kill someone.

Sam's expression, the way his face had turned chalk white as he stared out into the street shone in Dean's mind every time he closed his eyes. He hadn't thought Sam would have a reaction like that, and from the incomprehension in Sam's eyes, the kid hadn't expected it either. But it made sense, in a way. Sam hadn't been outside since the attack, staying in his room with the curtains closed, creating his own sheltered world where he could keep control over who came in and out, predict every eventuality. It made sense that the sudden ripping away of the safety net he'd constructed around himself would be like a bucket of ice water to the face.

Dean sighed, running a hand over his face like the action could wipe the last few days – hell, the last few _months _– away and start afresh.

His fingers itched to put the key in the ignition, to drive to Pittsburg and sell his soul for Sam's vengeance.

But who was he helping by running away again? Would it really make any difference to Sam's precarious mental state?

Dean unwound the side window, closing his eyes as a gasp of air curled around his face, stroking his hair. The high-pitched laugh of a group of kid playing soccer in the street drew his attention, and he watched their game for a while, the black-and-white ball bouncing off cement and between the two piles of sweaters acting as goalposts.

He wished he could pinpoint that moment just before everything had gotten so screwed up, that moment when he chose to follow the left road instead of the right. He had a feeling that this, right now, was another one of those moments. Left or right, stay or go. Which road would make it better, and which would make it worse?

* * *

Sam watched the Impala from the window of his room. He couldn't see Dean inside, but he knew the older man was there, sitting, thinking.

He wished he wasn't such a freak.

"You're not a freak, honey." Missouri's voice was soft behind him, but he jumped like she had yelled in his ear, his heart racing.

He turned to face her. "Well, I'm not normal. And I'm never gonna be, not after this. Dean…"

"Dean just needs some time." Missouri said, smiling hesitantly at him. "He just…needs to get his head around it. Give him some space."

Sam nodded mutely.

"Would you like some company? I can sit with you if you want." She watched him with kind eyes, the picture of compassion.

But Sam found himself shaking his head. "No, that's okay, really. Go back to your gardening. I-I'd like to be alone for a while."

"Okay, honey. But if you need me, I'm always going to be here for you." She patted his arm as she left, and Sam closed his eyes at the touch. "Remember that, Sam Miller."

He couldn't remember ever feeling so helpless, weak and pathetic as a day-old kitten.

Well, that had to stop, right now. Self-pity didn't sit right on him, and neither did lack of control.

The first step to regaining control was understanding the situation properly. Even though he didn't think he would ever understand Gareth's motivations, there _was_ something he could do, something he needed to know.

His cell phone was on the dresser and he picked it up. His hand was shaking, minute shivers running down his nerves. With an effort he stilled it, started flicking through the list of contacts until the number he knew off by heart was displayed on the screen

He stared at it through narrowed eyes like maybe it would speak to him, reassure him this was the right thing to do. Or maybe he was hoping it would dial itself and take the choice out of his hands altogether.

Sam swallowed. Possibly this was the hardest thing he'd had to do since deciding to go back to Dean, back to Elmstead and the werewolf hunt all those months ago. It felt terrifying, but also strangely liberating, like this act would complete a cycle, tie up an end that had been hanging loose since that day, that act of defiance.

He pressed dial and held the flimsy piece of plastic to one ear.

The sharp voicemail message made him inhale sharply; even though he'd _known _what he was doing and who he was calling, hearing his voice, even in a canned message, was still a throwback to those years of Sam's life _before_.

"_This is Jim Miller. Leave a message."_

"D-dad? Dad, it's Sam. Sir. Um, I…I don't really know…why I'm calling. Uh…look, I was just…I remembered something. From when I was younger. Did-did you know a guy called Gareth? It's just…I ran into him. And it didn't…end well. He, uh…well, it's not important. Just, did he do something to me? When I was younger? Did you-"

The phone beeped, cutting him off. Sam cursed, throwing the phone to the ground and pacing the length of the room. It was like his dad was _there_, cutting him off in person as he had always done and leaving him alone with his fears. He wanted to rip his hair out, bang his head against a wall, kick something until he broke a toe. Make his outsides feel as impotent as his insides felt, as his father _made_ him feel.

No. Not this time. Sam had _grown _since then, damnit, and he wanted some answers. He walked back and picked up the phone, redialling the number before he could think.

"_This is Jim Miller. Leave a message."_

"Dad, did Gareth try to…to rape me when I was younger? Did I remember that right? Because if I did, then I also remember you saving me from him. And-look, I'm not expecting anything from you. But I need to know, sir. So if you could call me back, or…send me a text, or an email, whatever, that'd be…I'd appreciate it."

He let out a slow shaky breath as he pressed the end call button. It was done. Everything else was in his dad's hands now.

His eyes fell on the pile of books and papers in the corner of the room, the research he'd been doing on the demon before the attack. It was about time he got back to it. Nothing and no one was going to take him by surprise again.

* * *

"Sam?" Dean's knock on the door interrupted Sam's research, and he looked up from his books. The older man stepped into the room, his lips pressed tightly together. "Kid, I've…I've got something I need to tell you."

"What's wrong?" When Dean didn't say anything, Sam cocked his head, glancing around the room quickly. "Look, if this is about my freak-out-"

"It's not, Sam." Dean cut him off. His face was white, two tiny blotches of red high on each cheek.

Sam's heart started pounding. "Dean, what?"

The older man looked down at his booted feet, watching them as they shuffled on the floor like they were the most fascinating thing in the world. He was quiet for so long that Sam's vision started to blur, his eyes fixed on Dean like he might disappear if he didn't keep all his concentration on the lines of his body.

Finally Dean lifted his head, meeting Sam's eyes squarely. "I, uh, just wanted to say that I'm not going anywhere. If, y'know, you were worried that I might, or something. I'm not gonna leave you alone again."

Sam's eyebrows rose. "Uh, okay?"

"Yeah." Dean nodded slowly. "Just…thought you should know that."

"Okay." Sam said, feeling completely mystified. "That's…good. Was that…it?"

"Yeah. I'll, uh, leave you to get back to what you're doing." He made a vague gesture towards the door. "I'll be in my room, if you want me."

Sam watched him leave, a frown on his face. Sometimes he really didn't _get_ Dean. But a small place inside him warmed when he thought of the older man's words. Even thought he'd _known_ Dean would never leave him, hearing it out loud was nice, too.

He sighed, picking up one of the books balanced on the bedside table. Stuck to the back was a sheet of paper, and Sam plucked it off, frowning as he read it.

_first thing that should be taught is how to shield the mind from unwanted psychic attacks… _

It was the paper he'd found on his bed last night. He scanned the page quickly, his frown deepening. It seemed to be from some kind of handwritten instruction manual on psychic training. He glanced around the room, looking for a book that it might have fallen out of. But there were no books the right size for the page, and he couldn't remember coming across anything labelled 'How To Train Your Psychic Powers'. It might have been useful if he had.

His eyes dropped to the paper again. It talked about visualization, about picturing a barrier in his mind, using it to hide all the things he didn't want anyone else to see. He found himself doing it as he read; visualizing a wall and pushing Gareth and his father and the demon behind it. It was surprisingly hard – they kept slipping around the edges, and even as Sam pushed one back, the other two would sneak out while he was busy grappling with the first.

It was only when he noticed the paper was crumpling in his grip that he realised how long he'd been at it, the top line smudging under sweaty fingertips. He looked at his thumb, grinning as he saw the first two words had literally stuck to the skin there, a miniature tattoo that spelled out _first thing _in mirror.

The grin slowly faded as the words registered. First thing.

If this, shielding his mind, was the first thing that he should have learned, then why hadn't Missouri been teaching it to him?


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense… Betaed by the wonderful Phx :)

Thank you for all your reviews, I really appreciate everyone who takes the time to let me know what they think :) The next chapter will be up on Saturday, so look out for it…

Chapter 17

_If shielding his mind was the first thing Sam should have learned, then why hadn't Missouri been teaching it to him?_

A cold shiver ran through Sam as he stared blankly at the paper he held in his hand. Why had Missouri left him open to the demon's manipulations when there was a simple way to stop them?

Something was very wrong here.

How had the paper got there in the first place? It hadn't fallen out from any of the books; Sam was sure of it. Even if it had, there was no way it could have been left tangled in the bedcovers last night. He would have noticed it when he went to bed, when he woke from his nightmare. It _hadn't been there_. So someonehad put it there while he'd been showering, with Dean sleeping obliviously two feet away.

It wasn't possible. Sam knew from experience that Dean woke at the slightest sound. Before the older man had gotten used to Sam's breathing, the sound of Sam's footfalls, Dean had been on his feet and pointing a gun at Sam every time he got up to take a piss in the night.

That meant that somehow, some_thing _had put the paper there, where Sam would find it and read it. He frowned, his head starting to throb. His first thought was that the yellow-eyed demon had done it, but why would the demon give him something that Sam could use against it?

A knock on the door startled him. Missouri's voice called through the barrier. "Sam, honey?"

Without knowing quite why he did it, Sam squeezed his eyes closed, thinking hard on that mental barrier. He shoved everything behind it, all his suspicions and fears, hiding them from view.

The door opened just as he was lifting his head.

"Sam, I was wondering, are you still taking those pills I gave you?"

*****

Dean halted before he could be seen from the doorway of Sam's room. A shiver ran through him at Missouri's question, her voice carrying easily into the hallway. The cold was immediately followed by anger burning white hot.

The pills? The pills he'd talked himself out of asking anyone about, because Sam would _never_… _Missouri _had given them to Sam, and the kid had actually taken them?

Sam's answer brought his train of thought to a juddering stop.

"Uh, yeah… I'm still…" Sam sounded like he was trying to talk through a concussion, his voice stuttering and unsure, fading out before he could finish.

Dean's mind flashed to an image of the pill bottle. The pill bottle that was currently hidden safely in his duffle, buried under dirty boxers and socks. He'd checked it was still there only that morning. Checked and been satisfied that no one had touched it, taken any of its contents.

How could Sam still be taking pills he didn't have?

*****

Sam tried to disguise a shudder, his every muscle locked up tight. Apparently practising unfamiliar psychic skills was the equivalent of one of his dad's early morning suicide runs, an hour to get to the other side of town and back, and god help him if he took a minute longer.

Missouri was saying something. He forced his head up, forced himself to meet her eyes, but she trailed off before he could catch any of her words. Her eyes narrowed and she looked at him through a slight frown. "Is everything okay? You feel…strange."

Sam pasted on a smile that probably looked a little manic. He didn't feel _strange_, he felt like he was being ripped in two; trying to bundle back all the thoughts that kept slipping free was like trying to hold back a wall of water with his hands. It made his head start to ache, sweat prickling his upper lip. He opened his mouth to speak, but there were no words. All his effort was focused on holding up that barrier, keeping his secrets secret.

"Sam, what is it? What's happened?" Missouri started to walk into the room. Her face was set in firm lines, and her voice was hard.

With a burst of effort, Sam found one trail of thought and _shoved_, pushing it outside his wavering barrier.

Missouri stopped dead, her head tilting to one side. When she spoke, her voice was low and considering. "Sam, what's going on?"

He managed to stutter something out. "I, uh…"

"I think you have something you need to tell me."

His hand clenched involuntarily, the paper making a loud crunching noise like grinding teeth. The sound drew Missouri's gaze.

"This…sudden burst of research."

Sam held his breath at her words. Her presence seemed to fill all the space in the room suddenly, sucking the air dry.

And then she sat in the armchair, becoming just a woman again. "You've remembered something, haven't you? About Gareth." Her lips pressed tight for a second. "I saw it in your head, as soon as you and Dean returned from the bar that night. That…wasn't the first time he'd tried something like that with you, was it?" She sat back against the cushions, her hands lying together chastely in her lap.

The first thing Sam felt was, ridiculously, relief. Relief that she hadn't…that she wasn't…

Missouri leaned forward, dark eyes set on his. "You called your father. Have you talked to Dean? I think he'd want to know."

"I didn't…want to worry him." Sam said, his head down. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead, tracing the lines of his frown.

"A little late for that now." The deep male voice startled Sam into looking up.

Dean stood in the doorway, his hands fisted by his sides. His face was empty, the eyes fixed on Sam's face shuttered. Sam held his gaze, and it was like they'd found each other in the middle of a battlefield, on opposite sides of the fight.

*****

"You called your dad?" Dean asked, keeping his voice tightly reined.

No secrets. That's what they'd said, so many times over. No secrets between them.

Sam tilted his head to one side. The tips of his hair were damp, spiky around his temples. "I had to. Dean, I had to."

"Why?"

Missouri cleared her throat from where she was sitting, but Dean didn't spare her a glance. This had nothing to do with her.

"I…I remembered something. When Gareth attacked me. I…had to know. My dad was the only other person I could ask." Sam was shaking ever so slightly, like he'd been running for days and his muscles were sore with tension.

Dean forced himself to step into the room. Forced his expression to remain calm, not to curl up into the snarl that wanted to come out every time Jim Miller was mentioned. Why the fuck couldn't Sam get past this? Jim Miller was a _bad man_; a simple enough concept to grasp, Dean thought. And he'd thought – _hoped _– that after Sam's last meeting with Jim, the message would have finally sunk in. Sam would finally be free of the man and his torture. Dean's fists contracted, hard enough to make one of his knuckles pop.

Sam spoke in a whisper, his entire body held taut as a bow string. "Dean, I'm sorry, but I _had to_."

Missouri stood, holding a hand out to Dean. "Dean, you shouldn't-"

"_Don't tell me what I should or shouldn't do_." He spat the words ather, the snarl breaking on his face like a thunderstorm. "This has _nothing _to do with you." He turned to face Sam again. "Did you talk to him? Are you going to see him?"

"I left a message. I…I asked him to call me back."

"No, he's not. You're not gonna talk to him." Dean saw Sam's phone lying on the end of the bed, snatched it up before anyone could stop him. "I'm not gonna let you do this to yourself again. I'm not gonna let _him _do this to you." He spun on his heel, heading for the door.

"Dean, I _need_ to-"

Over his shoulder, Dean shot back, "If he's going to be talking to anyone, it's gonna be _me_. And this time, you're going to let me handle it."

He closed the door behind him, ignoring Sam's broken call.

* * *

In the time it took to reach the foot of the staircase, Dean was already beginning to wish he could go back and redo the past five minutes. Sam's phone was still in his hand, the plastic edges digging grooves in the palm and fingers.

God, sometimes Sam could make him _so angry_. Why the hell wasn't he told about the pills? Why was Sam lying to him, and to _Missouri_, about taking them, or not taking them, whatever the hell Sam was doing with the damn things?

But the confusion faded in the face of the pure _rage _he felt at the thought of Sam's father.

He just didn't understand the kid's willingness to forgive and forget when it came to the subject of Jim Miller. _If _Jim Miller called Sam back, it would be Dean he would be answering to. He wasn't going to let Sam get hurt again, not if he could help it.

Dean paused, looking at the front door longingly. He wanted to get out of this house, to take Sam and pack up the Impala and _go_. They'd barely been here two weeks, but it felt like a lifetime and more. He missed _driving_, his music playing loud and Sam in the passenger seat, hiding a grin behind his best bitchy expression. But John had sent them here, and told them to stay, so stay they would.

With a deep sigh, Dean turned from the front door, striding into the kitchen. At least he could stand out on the back porch, breathe in the evening air and watch the sun setting, pretend he was somewhere else.

The back door opened with a creak and Dean stepped out onto the wooden porch. A light breeze brushed his face and he closed his eyes, leaning into it like a cat receiving a scratch behind the ear.

When Sam's phone began to ring in his hand, he was almost expecting it.

The screen said number withheld, but Dean lifted it to his ear anyway, keeping quiet. There was a second of heavy breathing on the end of the line, and then a gruff masculine voice spoke. _"Sam."_

"This is Dean."

A long pause. Dean watched impassively as a bird landed on the fence surrounding Missouri's back yard, hopping down to peck at a crust of dried bread. He was expecting shouting, ranting, demands to speak to Sam from the guy on the other end of the call.

So when the guy started talking in a low urgent voice Dean blinked, off-balance.

"_Listen, I've got a message to pass on to you boys, and I need you to do as I say without questions, okay?"_

Dean's eyebrows rose. "Wait a sec, who is this?"

"_It's Stephen." _Dean's eyes narrowed for a second before his mind called up an image of the old man, his crumbling mansion-like house and his missing leg. Stephen was talking again before he could ask any questions._ "Now just listen, okay? I tracked down your dad, like Sam asked me to. He's okay, but him and his buddy were in a bit of a tight spot. Seems they were ambushed on the way to get where you are by a bunch of demons."_

"Wait, wait!" Dean's head was reeling. "My-my dad? Sam did…what?"

Stephen growled. _"Just _listen_. Your dad, he seems to think it wasn't no accident, those demons being where they were, comin' after him. And I'm inclined to agree. A lot of strange things goin' on at the moment, and all of 'em seem to be designed to keep you boys where you are, and alone. Your dad's been tryin' to get ahold of the two of you, but he's not havin' much luck, and neither is anyone else. No one can get a call through to either of your cell phones, and the house phone there don't work neither. He told me to see what I can do, but I don't know how long this line's gonna last. Which is why you need to keep quiet a second, boy."_

"Okay." Dean breathed the word out, his fingers tight around the cell phone like he could physically hold the connection.

"_You and Sam, you gotta get outta Kansas. Your dad, he's on his way, fast as he can, but there's definitely something wrong_ _there, and you need to get the hell away from it."_

"Wrong? Like…the yellow-eyed demon, wrong?"

"_Can't say for sure, but I don't know any other supernatural creature that's out to get the both of you and smart enough to do it by cuttin' you off from anyone that'd come to your rescue. Just get outta there, boy. Keep Sam with you at all times. Head my way; I'll give your dad a head's up and we'll start thinkin' up a plan of attack when you boys are safe."_

Dean swallowed hard, staring across the quiet back yard. The wind picked up, making the big oak tree by the side of the house creak and sway, long limbs casting twilight shadows across the porch. A thought occurred to him suddenly, and despite a certain heaviness in his stomach, he asked, "What about Missouri?"

Stephen was quiet for a moment, long enough for Dean to hear a loud electronic ticking noise over the line. Finally he spoke. _"Your dad told me to tell you not to worry about her. It's the both of you that the demon's after. With you gone, she should be perfectly safe behind her wards."_ There was another pause. _"Is…is she there right now?"_

The hesitation made Dean's breath catch in his chest. "She's with Sam."

"_Okay." _Stephen took a long dragging breath. _"You need to pack up the car. Don't…don't tell Sam yet. The visions he gets…the demon might be able to see into his thoughts or somethin'. When you're ready, you just grab him and _go_, y'hear me?"_

"Yes sir." The answer was instantaneous.

"_Good. I'll give you three hours. If you can't reach me on your cell, stop off somewhere with WiFi – somewhere safe, mind – and when I know you're out and okay, I'll pass on a message to your dad. You head for my place, remember. Your dad'll turn around and meet us there. If you don't contact me, we'll assume you've run into some trouble." _

Dean nodded to himself, whispering an "okay" to Stephen's tired voice.

"_Remember, now, get the hell out as fast as you can. I'll be waitin' on that call." _Stephen sucked in a loud breath. _"The both of you be safe, okay?"_

"Yeah. See you soon." _Hopefully_, Dean added silently as he ended the call. He took a shaky breath, his hand against the painted wooden railing running around the porch. Missouri used it to help her climb the steep stairs leading down to the back yard – Dean had seen her grunting as she carried baskets of cooking apples and cut flowers into the kitchen. Around the edge of the porch were brightly painted terracotta pots holding pansies and green bushy herbs. It was a picturesque back yard, Missouri's pride and joy, and the effort she put in keeping everything was obvious.

"_Is…is she there right now?"_ The hesitation in Stephen's voice, the forced easiness of his question. Dean swallowed hard.

Getting the hell out of Kansas. _That _he could do, and gladly. Turning his back on the garden, he took a step towards the kitchen.

"Dean?" Missouri's voice startled him, her body breaking free of the shadows in the kitchen, a faceless shape. She stopped at the threshold, and Dean could just make out the jade beads of her necklace, looped twice around her neck. "Who was that on the phone?"

He swallowed hard, his heart beating so hard he thought it might break his ribs. Opening his mouth, he paused, staring hard at the shape of the small woman in front of him.

Missouri stepped onto the porch. "Is everything okay?"

"_Christo_." It sounded more like a hiss, the high whistle of air escaping through a pinhole in a punctured tire, than a word.

But there was no mistaking the flinch.

And Dean almost wanted to laugh when Missouri's eyes met his, a jaundiced yellow cataract covering the pupil and shining in the dim light. She let out a long sigh, shaking her head slowly, like he'd let her down in some way.

There was a flash as the silver bangles around her wrist caught the light of the waning moon, and Dean didn't even stand a chance of dodging the hand that hit him in the side of the neck, the unnatural force behind the blow knocking him backwards. His head collided with the painted porch railing, sending stars dancing across his vision.

"I'm sorry, Dean." It almost sounded as if she meant it, but before Dean had a chance to respond, a tiny feminine foot wearing a navy slipper collided with his temple and everything faded away.

* * *

Sam awoke with a groan. It felt like someone had taken a hacksaw to the top of his skull. Apparently psychic mind-blocking took a huge amount of energy; he didn't even remember falling asleep. But the effort had paid off; the barrier was easier to hold now, like his mind was adjusting, stretching to incorporate a strange new thing. He'd been visualizing a solid object, a brick wall in his mind, but the angles were all wrong, sharp edges and rough surfaces that grated painfully. It felt better, more _right_, to picture a kind of amorphous bubble, a thick fluid ectoplasm that he could mould to fit around his secrets.

Sam glanced up at the window. Someone had pulled the curtains, but a blade of artificial light from the streetlights outside slipped through the crack where they met in the centre. He must have slept through dinner. The thought made his stomach rumble. It bothered him that no one had come to wake him, that Dean hadn't brought something up for him.

He sat up. Whoever had closed the curtains had also moved all his books; they were stacked neatly in the corner.

A creak by the door made his head turn.

Missouri stood silently in the doorway, her face grave. Her hands were knotted at her waist, and as Sam watched she twisted her fingers together nervously.

"What? What's wrong?" He asked, his jaw tightening.

She bit her lower lip, something that Sam had never seen her do before. It made her look strangely young and girlish. "Honey, there's…there's something you need to know."

"What is it?"

Her eyes darted to the window and then back to his face. "It's…it's Dean. He's gone."

It felt like all the blood in his body had frozen at her words. Something in his mind screamed, _no, that's not right, no_, and forcing a light tone, Sam asked. "Where's he gone?"

"He left. He packed up his things and left." Missouri looked down at her feet. "I'm…not sure, I wasn't paying close attention to his mind, but he was so angry about your father. I-I found this downstairs." She held out a hand, and Sam saw she was holding his cell phone.

As if he was dreaming, Sam reached out and took it, pressing buttons until a list of received calls came up. There was one call – number unknown.

"No." He shook his head. "No, Dean didn't…he wouldn't…" He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the pain rolling through his mind like thunder. Pushing past Missouri, he stopped in the open doorway to Dean's room.

Everything was gone. The bags, the explosion of clothes, the weapons Dean had laid out across the floor for cleaning, nothing was where it had been only a few hours ago. The bed was neatly made, and a light breeze blew through an open window, making the fine net curtain flutter silently, like moths' wings.

"Sam, honey-" He felt Missouri come up behind him, her hand brushing his shoulder. He shrugged her off roughly before it could connect, spinning on his heel and running back into his own room.

With one violent wrench, he pulled the curtains back, twisting his head to see.

Everything in Sam went deadly still.

The stretch of curb outside Missouri's house was empty. The Impala was gone. Dean really didn't live here anymore.

"Sam, sweetie, I'm so sorry." Missouri's voice was quiet, reverent like she was speaking in a church. She stood in the doorway, preventing him from leaving the room, running away. He turned to look at her, seeing the compassion in her expression.

His heart stuttered, an uncontrollable shiver running up his spine like cold fingers. Like a snap, his mind went blank.

"It's going to be okay, Sam. I promise, it's going to be okay." She whispered, taking small steps toward him. He let her touch him, stroke his arm and pull him into a warm hug. "I'll take care of you, you'll see. It'll be okay."

Sam's head started to ache.


	18. Chapter 18

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense… Betaed by the wonderful Phx :)

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I loved hearing your thoughts :) There's only a few chapters left, but they're gonna be long ones, so I hope you guys enjoy…

Chapter 18

The pounding of his head pulled Dean slowly back into awareness. He felt like someone had smashed a sledgehammer into the top of his skull and his brain was leaking out of the cracks. His eyes didn't want to open, and he let out a low moan, wishing with everything he had for just a few more seconds of pain-free unconscious bliss.

His fingers were prickling with pin-and-needles and he tried to roll over, but his arms wouldn't follow his body, no matter how much he wriggled and tugged. The frown that creased his face made the ache in his head flare up bright and instantly he stilled, waiting for the multiple strange sensations to recede. It occurred to him that something was holding his hands together behind his back. He was strapped in place, sitting upright on a hard surface that pressed the seam of his jeans into his tailbone uncomfortably.

Stop. Investigate.

Cautiously, he cracked one eye open, tilting his head downwards so the dim afternoon light wouldn't hit him full in the face.

Light? It had been evening the last time he looked, night falling across Missouri's peaceful back yard.

Missouri. Missouri, with yellow eyes, bitch-slapping him and then knocking him out with a stamp to the head.

Fuck.

He lifted his head slowly, trying to keep his scrambled brains from sloshing about too much. It felt like he'd been on the mother of all benders; his mouth was sticky-dry and his entire body felt like it would shake apart if he wasn't tied up. Tied up to a bed post, he noted, numb fingers brushing against the round wooden shaft keeping them pinned behind his back. To his left, he could see the corner of a duvet poking off a mattress, a bright pink swirl assaulting his vision and making him wince. He craned his neck upwards, noting an abundance of pink fluffy pillows stacked on the bed, some with feathers stitched onto the edges, one with the words Hot Chick emblazoned across the front in silver sparkles.

Where the fuck was he?

He twisted his neck around, gritting his teeth against the groan. Stacked on top of the pink bed of ultimate girliness was another – bunk beds – and this one had a white bed sheet hanging over the safety bar. A white bed sheet with a smiling red car on the corner. Dean vaguely remembered Sam watching some downloaded Disney movie with that car in it.

A broken gasp to his left made him start, his head spinning to look. Unfortunately the movement only made his vision swirl in psychedelic patterns that felt like lightning sparks to his sore eyes. When his eyes cleared, he could hear quiet stifled crying coming from the other end of the bed.

"Sam?" The word felt clumsy on his tongue. He blinked, seeing a thin browned arm handcuffed back around the other leg of the bed. It didn't look like Sam's.

"Dean?" His name was a gasp at the end of a sob. Margaret's tear-stained face appeared around the corner of the bed. Her black hair was a tangle around her face, sticking to her clammy cheeks. There was a swollen bruise high on her cheekbone. "Is-is that…you?"

"Margaret. What the fuck?"

"Are you…" Her face crumpled for a second before she visibly pulled her emotions back. "If you're…one of them…"

"One of who?" He frowned, ignoring the ache in his forehead. "Did Missouri do this to you?"

Her lower lip wobbled and she held his gaze for a second before her breath hitched and her hair fell to cover her face. "Missouri…"

"She's possessed. By a demon." Dean glanced at the doorway. "Where are we? When did you see her?"

"She came…while we were having breakfast this morning. I thought…" Her voice dissolved. "She said she wanted to borrow some eggs. I…opened the door."

"She would have gotten in anyway." Dean said, swallowing back the urge to yell, demand answers she didn't have. "A demon is stronger than a human. If she wanted to get in, she would have broken down the door."

With a deep shaky breath, Margaret tossed her hair back. "We're in my…my childrens' room. I've been trying to free my wrists, but the handcuffs are too tight. The bed's too heavy to lift."

Dean squeezed his eyes closed, knocking his head gently against the bed frame. "Damnit." He muttered softly. After a moment, he sucked in a breath. There wasn't time to sit around feeling sorry for himself. Sam was in danger, and he didn't even know it.

It was ridiculous; Sam was probably less than thirty feet away from him right now, and he couldn't do _anything_. At least once he got out of here there wouldn't be far to go to get to the kid. It was just a matter of actually _getting out_.

His eyes drifted around the room, looking for anything he could use to pick the lock of his handcuffs. There were fluffy pink pens, pencils, a notepad with a wire-bound spine and a picture of a dog on the front that would probably work if it wasn't on the desk on the other side of the room. Most of the room looked like it had been taken over by Kiera, covered in little-girl prettiness. There was a toy garage that probably belonged to Charlie in one corner, a pile of toy dinosaurs surrounded by Lego in a neat arrangement beside it, like the little boy had left the toys in mid-play.

Something occurred to him as he looked over the room, and he turned to face Margaret again. Her head hung on her neck, her hair lank. "Margaret? Where are Kiera and Charlie?"

A stifled sob. "I don't know. She…she hit me. I didn't see…" Her small frame shuddered. "I don't know where they are."

* * *

The back door was open. Sam stood motionless at the kitchen table, his hand gripping the back of a chair. He took a long breath, forcing himself to step towards that rectangle of open air. Nothing was there, nothing would hurt him. No one was hiding just beyond the door, waiting to pounce.

"Sam? Would you like some supper? I've got some chicken thawing in the refrigerator? Or I could make you an omelette?" Missouri's voice made him start, but he hid the reaction before it could show on his face.

"No, thanks."

She sighed. "You have to eat something, sweetheart. I know you're upset, but there's no point in making yourself sick. You need to keep your strength up." The scrape as she pulled a chair out made him tense up.

"I'm fine. Thanks. I've made some coffee." He waved a hand at the barely-touched mug on the counter. Black, like Dean drank it. He'd tried to drink it bitter too, but it made his tongue curl. Loading it with sugar killed the bad taste but he couldn't take more than a couple of sips before putting it down, as if the act of sweetening his drink meant that he'd failed Dean in some way. He wasn't as strong as the older man, couldn't even take his coffee like Dean did.

Couldn't even step outside the door.

His headache had receded to a dull throb, like someone was knocking gently but repetitively on a door in his mind. He breathed through it, could almost pretend it wasn't there, except for the occasional sharp spike.

"I'll make you some food." Missouri stood suddenly, coming up behind him. He didn't turn to look at her, but he could feel the warmth of her body at his arm. "You don't have to eat it, but maybe you'll decide you're hungry after all."

He pulled his lips in a false smile. "Maybe."

"It's not the end of the world, you know. Dean's done a terrible thing, but at least now you know how far you can trust him." Sam could hear the disgust in her voice as she spoke.

He swallowed down the retort, forcing it to the back of his mind. He could trust Dean. He _did _trust Dean.

"I'll be here if you ever want to talk about it, honey. Anytime." Missouri continued to the accompaniment of drawers being opened, plates and cutlery being arranged neatly on the kitchen table. "You should know that I'm here for you."

Sam bit down on the inside of his cheek. "Yeah." He'd trust Dean to the end of the world. Dean promised he wouldn't leave him. He _promised_.

Where the fuck was he?

* * *

"Damnit!" Dean wrenched at his bound arms in frustration, ignoring the bite of metal around his wrists.

"Calm _down_, Dean." Margaret hissed, her eyes darting to the open doorway. So far, Missouri hadn't been back to check on them. "Just take a breath and try again."

He closed his eyes, sucking in a deep breath as instructed, and started to wriggle forward. His arms pulled painfully, but he used the leverage to shuffle his butt along the carpeted floor, his leg stretched towards the wheelie desk chair. It had slipped to the side on his last attempt, almost out of reach, but if he could just hook a toe around the bottom…

His booted foot brushed the plastic and he stilled for a moment, holding himself steady. It would be easier if he wasn't wearing boots. They were big and clumsy and he couldn't feel a thing through the leather. But he would make do.

He'd _have _to make do.

Across the room Margaret gasped quietly, holding her breath. Slowly, so slowly, he twisted the toe of his boot around the wheel of the chair. If he could position it right, he could _maybe_ kick the back of the chair into the desk. Then that spiral-bound dog notebook _might _slip from its position on the edge of the desk. Once it was on the floor, he'd have to devise some way of reaching it, because he knew for damn sure his leg wouldn't stretch _that _far, but it would be progress. They'd be a step closer to escape.

Carefully, he nudged the chair over, rolling it in small increments towards him. The last thing he needed was to use too much force and kick the thing across the room. His arms burned from the strain and his head throbbed in sympathy, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it.

The chair eased its way into position, and he allowed a moment to chuff a breath of air – the closest thing he could afford to a yell of triumph – and then, aiming carefully, he kicked it forward with all his strength.

The back of the chair hit the desk at an angle and spun around on its pivot, the seat tucking neatly under the desk, out of his reach. The notebook didn't even wobble.

Margaret stifled a desperate sob, her face scrunching up as she tried not to give in to tears.

"God _damnit_!" Dean smacked his head against the bedpost behind him, not caring about the sparks it brought forth.

They sat unmoving for a long moment, both of them trying to control laboured breathing and emotions running wild.

"We have to get out of here." Dean spoke before he realised he was intending to. "I have to get to Sam. He doesn't even _realise _what Missouri is."

Margaret made a pained noise.

"Okay." He took a deep steadying breath. "Okay, new plan. We still need to get out of these handcuffs, so… Any ideas? Any ideas at all?"

Margaret didn't look at him. Her face was blotchy from crying, and her nose was running. There was a smear of dirt across the front of her rumpled white tank top. All in all, she didn't look her best.

"Margaret? C'mon, help me out here. You know what's in this room; is there anything we could use? Anything small and thin, metal, preferably?"

She swallowed, her throat working visibly. "Do you think my children are dead?"

Dean looked away. Honestly, he didn't know _what _to think. If he'd had to make a prediction before all this had happened, he would have said without hesitation that if the demon was here, it would kill him straight out. The very _last _thing he imagined happening was the demon taking him captive, and locking up the girl next door as well, for good measure.

He hoped Kiera and Charlie were still alive, _god _he hoped. But he couldn't see a reason why _he _was still alive, let alone what use two small children might be.

He met Margaret's eyes, resisting the urge to look away again at the frantic need and hope he saw there. "I don't know. I'm sorry, but I don't know."

Her lips pressed tight together. "What the _hell _is going on here, Dean? What _is this_?"

"I…I don't…really know." He closed his eyes, resting his head against the bedpost. "Look, there's this…thing. You know about Missouri, right? Her psychic powers?" When Margaret nodded, he continued. "Well, there's also…other stuff out there. Demons, monsters, that sorta stuff. And…I guess Sam and I, we hunt them down. Protect people. Except this particular demon, it wants Sam for some reason."

"Because he's psychic?" She asked. There wasn't any surprise on her face, which was understandable, Dean supposed. The woman was tied to a bedpost and her children were missing. She was probably willing to believe anything right now.

"Yeah, we think so. There's basically a whole bunch of reasons we're here, but the main one was to get Missouri's _help_," he choked on a bitter laugh, "to protect us against this demon. Only I guess she played us for fools the entire time." He banged his head against the bedpost again. "_God_, I'm such a fucking _idiot_. All this time, and I _knew _something wasn't right. I _knew _it. She set us up just to fuck with us."

"So the only reason I'm here, the only reason my _children _are involved in this, is because of you?" Margaret spoke in a dead voice, her face as still as if it was carved from stone. Dean watched her, her face in profile against the lurid background of a High School Musical poster pinned to the wall behind her. Her eyes were set on the floor in front of her.

The creak of footsteps on the stairs made them both catch their breath, eyes flicking to the doorway.

A second passed, and then two.

The figure that appeared wasn't who either of them were expecting.

Kiera was wearing a dirty pink tutu, a white lycra leotard underneath. Her feet were clad in filthy ballet slippers and she left scuff-marks on the carpeted floor behind her.

Margaret's breath hitched, held for a second, and then she let out a loud keening sound. "Oh _god_, Kiera, honey, are you okay? Honey, talk to me! Mommy's right here, it's all gonna be okay, I promise!"

"Kiera!" Dean raised his voice over Margaret's. "Darlin' you gotta find something to help us get these handcuffs off, okay? You gotta…" His voice trailed off. The little girl just stood there, her hands playing idly with the starched fluff of her tutu. "Kiera?"

She turned a smile on him, and he couldn't help the strangled gasp that escaped his mouth. Her face was dirty, her black curls in wild disarray around chubby cheeks.

Her mouth was stained with red, and her eyes were overtaken with black. She turned them on Margaret with a gleeful giggle. "Hi mommy. Are you and Dean having fun?"

* * *

Sam latched the door to the bathroom, standing with his head close to it for a few seconds, listening intently.

No sounds, no telltale creak that would tell him someone was standing in the hall, no hushed breaths. He was relatively sure he was alone.

Pulling out his cell phone, he quickly flicked through the contacts list to Stephen's private line, the line that never failed. The old man had designed it to withstand an apocalypse if need be, and Sam prayed to anyone that might be listening that it worked.

He pressed the call button, raising it to his ear. Listened to it ring, and ring, and ring. When the line clicked over to the automated voice telling him the number he was trying to call was unavailable, it felt like someone was leeching all the blood from his veins.

A knock on the door was followed by Missouri's best concerned-voice. "Sam? Are you okay in there?"

He closed his eyes. "I'm fine, Missouri. Just…washing my face." He tiptoed over to the sink, turning on the cold water faucet.

"Well, listen honey, I was thinking we should probably get started on your training again. I know you're not…in a good place right now, but I really think you should keep up your practise."

Sam swallowed, turning the tap off again and walking to the door. He unlatched it to find Missouri waiting in the hall for him. "I…don't know if I'm ready, yet. Do-do you have a customer coming, or something?"

She shook her head. "I've cancelled all my appointments for the time being. I thought you'd probably do better if it were just the two of us. Margaret's taken the kids to see their father for the week, so we won't be interrupted by anyone."

"Oh." Sam forced a smile onto his lips. "That's…good."

Missouri cocked her head. "Is that okay? I just thought…well, you're not doing too well around other people, so I thought it would be better if we didn't have strangers walking in and out all day long."

He nodded, ducking his head so his bangs fell in his eyes. "Yeah. That's good."

"So, shall we start practising then? I've cleared a space in the living room; I thought we could work on controlling that telekinesis."

Without any other options, Sam nodded meekly and followed Missouri back down the stairs. He could feel the angles of his cell phone in the front pocket of his jeans, just a useless piece of plastic.

* * *

"Where's Sam?" Dean demanded, jerking uselessly against his bindings. "What are you gonna do to him?"

Kiera didn't look the least bit bothered by Dean's show of aggression, her fingers pulling at the sagging frizz of her tutu until it stood out straight from her waist again. "He's with 'Missouri'. It's weird," she met his eyes, her red-stained lips twitching in a smile, "I would've thought after that awkward but oh-so-heartwarming speech you gave him – you know, the one where you promised to never ever leave him ever again – that he'd at least have _some _doubts when we told him you'd taken off. But no. He took one look at your empty room and started throwing himself a little pity-party. You know how he is; all angsty and nobody-loves-me, like a pathetic little baby." She pouted obscenely, the pink of her lower lip wet and shiny. "I thought he'd have a little more faith in you, to be honest."

"Shut up." Dean growled, rubbing the chain-link of the handcuffs against the bedpost like he could wear one down with the pressure.

Kiera giggled; the same light childish sound that she'd made when Dean pushed her on the swings. "It was really funny. I think he cried."

Dean lunged at the demon in the little girl's body, forgetting all about the cuffs until they wrenched at his arms. "Shut _up_!"

Margaret made a squeaking sound, a little cut-off scream. "Don't!" She cried, as if Dean might actually break free and hurt her child.

"Yeah, don't, Dean. You don't wanna hurt a little girl, do you?" Kiera tilted her head to one side coquettishly. "I bet you'd never forgive yourself."

"Where's Charlie?" Margaret choked the words out through her panting sobs. "What have you done to Charlie?"

Kiera took two steps towards her mother and bent gracefully to a kneel, just out of Margaret's reach. She leaned forward a little, smiling sweetly. "It's okay, mommy. Do you remember how you told us grandpa went to live with the angels?"

Through a mess of tears, Margaret's eyes went wide.

"Charlie's gone there too. He's with the angels now." Kiera nodded, the movement that of a serious child. Dean grunted, twisting his wrist in the cuffs. If he could just get free… Kiera didn't even bother to glance over at him.

"What…" Margaret shook her head, slowly at first and then with more conviction. "No. No."

"Yes, mommy." A pink tongue licked at some of the red staining Kiera's mouth, slowly and deliberately. "I sent Charlie to live with the angels. It's okay, I think he'll like it there better than he liked it here. After all, no one's gonna tease him about not having a daddy _there_, are they? No one's gonna make fun of him 'cause his mom can't afford to let him go on class trips with all his friends, or buy him clothes that didn't come from the second-hand store. I bet the _angels _won't spend the money put aside for his birthday present."

"Hey! Hey, shut the _fuck _up!" Dean yelled, uselessly; no one was paying any attention to him.

"I…I h-had to pay the-the bills…" Margaret stuttered, her chest heaving with uneven breaths. Her face was deathly white and her eyes had glazed over, too stretched-open and sucked of life.

"You should've just sent us to live with daddy." Kiera kept talking in the same easy voice, like she was discussing something she'd watched on TV last night. "Daddy always buys us nice presents, and his girlfriend is really pretty. The last time we saw her, she said we should call her _mom_."

Dean bared his teeth in a snarl. "Hey, leave her alone! You _fucking_-"

Kiera's head snapped towards him. The blackness in her eyes had faded back to their original dark brown, and she showed him her teeth. "Hey, at least Sam's not dead, right? That's what you're thinking, isn't it? Too bad about Charlie, but at least it's not _Sam_."

Margaret let out a broken whimper. Kiera continued in a sweet lilting tone. "Shame that Sam doesn't believe in _you_, though. Never mind, I'm sure he'll be perfectly willing to kill you when Missouri tells him you're possessed by the yellow-eyed demon. She can do that, y'know. She can make him think that you hate him, that you want to kill him. And he'll believe her. Because why would she lie? _She _never yelled at him about phoning his father. _She _never kept secrets from him." She giggled again, a tiny hiccup of sound bubbling from her throat. "At least, none that he knows about."

* * *

"Are you taking this seriously, Sam?" Missouri was standing in the middle of the living room, her hands rigid on her hips. Missouri had cleared a space in the room, moving the coffee table and the armchair to the walls and leaving the floor empty.

Sam stood opposite her, his shirt sticking to the sweat forming between his shoulder blades. Missouri had set him a 'simple' task; levitating a glass of water.

So far the nearest he'd gotten to moving the thing was accidentally kicking it over.

"I'm _trying_." He muttered, fixing narrowed eyes on the glass to avoid meeting Missouri's gaze.

"Not hard enough. Sam, you need to be prepared." She let out a heavy sigh, as if his incompetence was exhausting her. "If the demon confronts you right now, what are you going to do? Tell it to wait a second, you haven't quite got the hang of your powers yet?"

Sam pressed his lips together tightly, his fingers curling at his sides.

"Try _harder_, Sam. How did it feel when you made that knife fly out of the possessed woman's hand, back when the demon confronted you the last time? Do you remember? She was about to slit Dean's throat, and you stopped her."

His head snapped up to stare at her before he could control the movement. Remembering that moment, that split-second he'd thought it was too late, Dean was…

It had been like snatching the knife from her fingers; he'd _felt _it like he was holding it himself. Felt the cold of the metal, the sharp slip of a blade against his skin.

Missouri was watching him with a tiny mysterious smile. "Now come on, Sam. Try again."

* * *

The speed limit into Kansas was fifty; the needle in the GMC truck hadn't wavered from eighty since they'd crossed the border an hour ago. Caleb was shocked and horrified by the apparent leniency of the police in the state. Really, he was.

John drove with gritted determination, his back hunched over the wheel like the truck could be spurred on through forward weight distribution. It must have been killing his cracked ribs, but he wasn't saying anything. Not that Caleb could blame him; it _was _John's only son in deep shit. And Caleb couldn't quite disguise the jitter in his own hands whenever he thought about Dean in trouble; the man who'd grown from that little boy tagging along on his heels and begging to ride with him so he could listen to the loud music his daddy wasn't _cool _enough to like. And Sam – that whipcord-thin kid with eyes like a cat's and a quick shy smile – Caleb worried for him too.

The old guy, Stephen, had checked in with them half an hour ago. No word from either of the boys.

John hadn't been sure about taking direction from some random guy who called him up on his cell – his _unlisted _cell – while they were being stitched back together, but those three grizzled hunters Stephen'd sent to bust the two of them out of that demon hell-pit had convinced him the old man knew his stuff. And privately Caleb thought maybe the mention of Sam's trust in Stephen had gone a long way in convincing John. It made Caleb's lip twitch in a half-smile even now; John actually _liked _the kid, even knowing that Sam was probably doing gay things with his son.

But now wasn't the time to be musing on John's feelings about other people, mercurial as they may be.

A red light pulled them up on a busy junction, cars zipping by in front of them, and John swore under his breath, smacking a hand against the wheel. He was doing it again, blaming himself for the whole goddamn mess. Caleb would've attempted a heart-to-heart, tell the guy it wasn't his fault, he couldn't have known, but it wouldn't have done any good.

John hadn't known Missouri had been possessed when he sent the boys her way; hell, she probably _hadn't _been possessed when he told them to go.

Didn't change the fact that she was now, or that Dean, who usually had a good eye for this sort of shit, had probably only stuck around the place this long because John had been the one to send him there. As a somewhat impartial observer, Caleb had long ago come to the conclusion that both Winchesters were fucked in the head when it came to family loyalty. Dean had something to prove by following John's orders, whether he'd known it or not. He'd walked out on his daddy once before, and he was all about showing the man that he wouldn't do it again, that he was one-hundred per cent committed to the cause this time. If that meant sticking to John's instructions and ignoring his gut when it told him something was wrong, then so be it. And now John was halfway to killing himself to right his perceived wrong in sending Sam and Dean straight to trouble.

The light changed, and with a grumbled "finally" John stamped down on the gas, the truck tearing off down the street. They were less than five minutes away from the house, and Caleb thought it was probably time to start thinking rationally about how to deal with the situation.

"So. What's the plan here?"

John grunted without taking his eyes from the road.

"…okay then. The patented John Winchester 'run on in there blind and get ourselves gutted' it is."

"Jesus Christ Cale, you think this is a time for jokes?" John snapped, looking over long enough to shoot him a glare.

Caleb snorted, tapping the fingers of his good arm on the windowsill. "Nope. Do think we need a plan, though."

John let out a frustrated sound. "Fine, if you can think one up in the next three minutes, 'cause I'm not sittin' around in the front yard discussing tactics while my son and his…_friend_, are in danger."

"Well, you'll be needin' a minute to help me into my goddamn wheelchair before you go chargin' in there anyway, which is probably gonna screw with your righteous godly anger, so why don't you take a few breaths and think this through a little first, huh?"

The speech didn't seem to register with John. Spinning the wheel wildly, John steered the truck into a residential street with a manic, almost gleeful, expression. Caleb let out a sigh, wishing not for the first time that he wasn't reliant on a fucking _crazy man_ to get him about. His shoulder was healing well, but the ripped tendons and muscles around his knees were taking their sweet time, and despite the hours of obsessive physio Caleb was putting himself through every morning to keep up the strength, his leg muscles were slowly going soft. If John decided to leave him in the truck, there wasn't much Caleb was going to be able to do about it.

They skidded down another street, probably breaking yet another traffic law because John hadn't taken the half-second to switch on his headlights when night began to fall. Caleb reached over and did it for him with another theatrical sigh.

John batted at his hand like he was a naughty child.

"Hey, just tryin' to keep us from runnin' off the road before we even get there." Caleb said, holding the hand up in a sign of surrender.

It turned out to be a damn good thing that he switched the lights on, because suddenly John was swearing and slamming on the brakes, spinning the wheel to avoid the small boy standing in the cross-path of the yellow hi-beams.

"Jesus _fuck_!" Caleb snatched at the door handle as the truck bumped up the curb, tyres screaming against the brake pads. The back end fishtailed across someone's neatly tended front lawn, grass clods and flowers tossed up in a shower that clattered against the front of the house, a hubcap flying loose through the air to smash a lower floor window.

John wrangled the car under control, bringing it to a juddering halt, and they sat there in silence for a long moment, the both of them panting like they'd run a marathon.

Until John smacked a hand against the seatbelt release, fingers groping until they found the button. He kicked the door open, swinging himself from the driver's seat with an energy fuelled by rage.

"John…" Caleb reached out, snatching at air and knowing it wouldn't do any good. He let out a heavy breath and unwound his window. "John! Leave it, willya? We got more important things to do!"

But, of course, John completely ignored the cripple stuck in the truck. He marched over to the boy, the poor kid still standing petrified in the street, big brown eyes watching John's approach, looking like a terrified baby rabbit about to be killed by a huge terrifying man, with or without a truck.

"Hey! Hey, kid! What the fuck d'ya think you were doin', standin' in the street like that? You know I coulda killed you?" John was hollering like he was trying to be heard through a hurricane, his arms waving in the air crazily.

The boy just stood there.

"John! Will you get back in the damn truck and let the kid go home? He's scared enough without you goin' after him, lookin' like you're gonna beat the damn shit outta him!" Caleb yelled, feeling worse than fucking pathetic leaning out of the car window.

John let out a grunt of frustration, and Caleb could see some of the fight deflate with it. With a rough shake of his head, the other man spun on his heel, striding back to the truck.

"That's a good boy." Caleb muttered, turning his head so John wouldn't catch it. "C'mon, back to the truck, now." And then he frowned. The little kid had mobilized like he'd heard Caleb's words, running full-pelt after John, his tiny chubby legs powering like miniature pistons. As he got closer to the truck, Caleb could see the scuff-marks on his dungarees, the tears at the knees. The white tee shirt underneath was grimy with mud and so was his face, like he'd been out playing all day and his parents had forgotten to call him in to take a bath. He must have been about four years old, and Caleb wondered at the kind of parents who would let a young boy like that run about in the street after dark.

John heard too, and turned in time to steady himself against the hood on Caleb's side of the truck as the boy hit him, arms wrapping around his legs like tentacles. "Whoa, what the-"

Caleb leaned back out of the window, feeling totally undignified. "Hey, what's goin' on?"

John shot him a mystified look, awkwardly reaching out to try and untangle himself from the kid's grasp.

The kid turned his face up to John's, and Caleb noted that the wide-eyed thing seemed to be more of a permanent expression rather than a reaction to almost being run down. The boy opened his mouth, his lips working on words that wouldn't come out.

John knelt down, the anger he'd been feeling towards the boy turned instantly into soft words. "Hey, hey, what's wrong, son? Where do you live?"

The boy blinked, tears coming to his eyes. "She…she…"

"Who, son?" John squeezed his tiny shoulder gently.

"She…hurt my momma. An' my sister. An' she…she…"

John shared a confusion-filled glance with him, turning back to the boy. "Someone hurt your mom? Where do you live, kiddo?"

But the boy shook his head frantically. "She made my sister _bad_. An' she _stole_ Mister Dean."

John froze.

Mouth suddenly drier than a desert, Caleb sucked in a sharp breath.

"Who? What happened, kid?"

The boy's face screwed up tight. "'Sourri. She's a bad lady, an'…an' she hurt my momma, an' she made my sister bad too, an' she…she hid Mister Dean away so Sam can't find him no more." Like he'd exhausted all his words after his announcement, the kid stuck his thumb in his mouth and began sucking industriously.

John's fingers tightened in the sleeves of the boy's tee shirt. "Son, can you tell me your name? Do you know where Dean and Sam are now?"

The boy nodded, his thumb still firmly lodged in his mouth.

"Can you tell me?"

He nodded again, hard. Around the thumb, he mumbled out, "Yeah. Mis'er Dean's a' my house wi' my momma, and Sam at 'Sourri's house, only she bad. He don' know that, 'cause she _lied_."

"What's your name, kiddo?" Caleb called from the window.

The boy turned those big coffee-coloured eyes on him. "Charlie."


	19. Chapter 19

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense…

Sorry I'm a little late with this! Thank you for all your wonderful reviews, I appreciate everyone who took the time to let me know what you think :) Someone asked how many chapters there are left - there's one more and then a final chapter/epilogue to follow. This chapter is unbetaed so any mistakes are mine…

Chapter 19

The kid – Charlie, John reminded himself – was sitting between John and Caleb in the truck, shivering like he'd never stop.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. Nothin's gonna happen to you. John an' me, we're right here." Caleb whispered softly, patting the boy on the shoulder with his good arm. He shot a look at John. "Ain't that right, Johnny?"

"Yeah." John replied, keeping his eyes on the house. The house he'd sent his son to.

There was a light on in the living room, dim and yellow as it filtered through Missouri's curtains. John remembered those curtains; thick and heavy, a soothing cream colour that matched the walls and the dark mahogany wood furniture inside. That house was where he'd learnt the truth about his wife's death. The woman who lived there had been kind to a strange man and his young son, both inconsolable with grief. She'd brought Dean a chocolate chip cookie fresh from the oven, snatched John's silver flask away while his back was turned and poured the contents down the drain. She'd given him a reason to survive.

A shadow flickered across the creases of the curtains, indistinct. Charlie said she was still in there with Sam, but he couldn't know that for sure.

He did know that the house next door held his son and a young woman captive.

First things first – save Dean. Once Dean was out, they were another man up, and they could send the woman and her son on their way. The young daughter might be a problem; from Charlie's confused mumbling, John thought she was probably possessed. Probably here, somewhere, waiting to trip them up.

He sucked in a noisy breath, tearing his eyes away from the row of houses and fixing a hard look on Caleb. "I'm gonna go in, see if I can't find Dean. You stay here with the boy."

Caleb's mouth drew into a thin line. "And what if Azazel comes lookin'? It's _Missouri _the damn demon's possessing, here. If we were this close to her, she'd know about it. No doubt the demon's gonna figure it out pretty soon too."

"Well, we just gotta hope that whatever it's doing with Sam is keeping it occupied for now." John closed his eyes; he was getting too damn old for this shit.

With a grunt, he leaned over the back of the seat, twisting around awkwardly to avoid accidentally elbowing Charlie in the eye. His fingers moved over the pile of weapons and out of habit he recited the name of each in his head, identifying them by their curves and ridges. When he came to a plain wooden box his fingers stilled, closing on it and pulling it into his lap.

The Colt had been with him everywhere; the first thing he'd taken into a motel room, a heavy weight in his jacket in diners. Never more than five feet away from him, not since Sam had handed it to him in the grey concrete pit of a gas station. He swallowed hard and opened the box.

"Here." He handed the antique gun over to Caleb, who took it with eyes stretched cartoonishly wide. "You keep hold of this and watch the house. She comes out, you shoot her."

Caleb ripped his eyes from the gun, meeting John's. "What if she goes after you first?"

John's gaze wandered back to the house, that one first floor window lit up. "Then I'll run like hell."

* * *

Margaret hadn't stopped crying since her daughter had skipped out of the room, humming some childish rhyme to herself. Margaret had shuffled around so the corner of the bed blocked her from view but Dean could still see her brown arm twisted around the bedpost, the ring of silver metal biting into the skin of her wrist. He felt useless; something that he was experiencing a lot of recently.

"Margaret?" He tried, keeping one eye on the door in case demon-Kiera decided to make a reappearance.

His only answer was a gasp of breath before the crying started again. Dean bit his lip, glancing around like something would come up, some new demon would attack just so he'd have something to _say_. Tears weren't something he knew how to handle. Sam was the one who talked to devastated victims and witnesses, consoling them with careful words and comforting expressions. Dean tended to wait outside in the car on those jobs; he'd tried helping, but invariably he'd say the wrong thing at the wrong time, set the tears off all over again and Sam would shoot him a look that said _you're being insensitive. Again_. At least Margaret didn't seem to expect any kind of sensitivity from him; she seemed locked in her own head, replaying the vicious words of something that looked and sounded exactly like her daughter.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs was almost a welcome distraction. Margaret's sobs cut out abruptly, and Dean knew she heard them too.

The room was in darkness, the demon not considerate enough to provide them with a nightlight, but the half-open door leading into the hallway allowed creeping shades from a downstairs light. Unfortunately, it also meant that anyone entering the room was backlit, a silhouette, their features hidden.

Margaret's sharp inhale as she caught sight of the broad shoulders and bulky body that filled the doorway was echoed by Dean; a taunting little girl they could handle, but a full-grown man? They didn't stand a chance.

And then the figure moved. Dean's heart stopped and then started again, beating twice as hard.

That distinctive rolling gait was one Dean knew, one he'd known his entire life. As a child it had meant power and safety, strength and absent kindness, his own superman, and the sight of it now, _here_, brought a sudden unexpected flood of tears to his eyes.

"Dad?"

The figure paused, head turning in his direction. "Dean? Christ, are you okay?" A hand reached out to flick the light switch, and Dean stared into the bloodshot eyes of his father.

"Dad! What…how did you…"

John moved swiftly across the room and dropped to kneel beside Dean, his hands going to the cuffs pinning Dean's arms back. "Shh. It's okay son, I got ya. Is the little girl around?"

From the other end of the bed, Margaret made a stifled groaning sound. John spared her a quick glance. "It's okay, ma'am, you're okay now. Your son found us outside, told us what was goin' on."

"My son?" At John's words, she renewed her struggle against her bonds, her eyes wide with a wild hope. "My son, Charlie, he's okay? You've seen him? He's alive?" John's reply was a short nod in her direction.

Fingers brushed Dean's wrists, and then there was a click, and he pulled his stiff arms free. Before John could move to Margaret, Dean caught a handful of his shirt. "Dad, where's Sam?"

John paused for a second, his eyes inscrutable.

"Dad?" Dean's hands started to shake as John pulled away without saying anything, crossing the room to kneel beside Margaret.

"Sam's with Missouri. As far as we know, he's okay." John spoke gruffly, his eyes trained on Margaret's cuffs. "Caleb's outside in the truck with the boy, Charlie. We thought we'd be better off gettin' you out before we…attempt anything."

A second click and Margaret's cuffs dropped away. She was on her feet in a flash, clenching her hands rhythmically to get the blood flowing again, her face pale and set in an expression somewhere between terrified and determined. She stopped at the empty doorway, looking at the floor like she was trying to figure out how to step across the threshold. "My daughter?" She glanced back at John, seeming to accept his authority without question. "What about my daughter? Please, can you help her? Please?"

"We'll come back for her. Right now though, we gotta get out of here."

Margaret hesitated, looking between Dean and John like she was a lost little girl herself. Dean swallowed hard. He'd never been good at putting himself in other people's places – probably why he didn't play _sensitive _too well – but if Margaret's fear for her daughter was even _half _as strong as Dean's fear when he thought of Sam…

He reached out, laying an awkward hand on her shoulder blade. She looked up at him, the black circles around her puffy eyes making her look like she was in mourning already. "We'll come back for Kiera. I promise. If we can save her, we'll do everything we can."

She closed her eyes at his words, her eyebrows drawn together in sorrow.

"C'mon." John was already pushing past them, his gun held up parallel to his shoulder like he was acting in some bad cop show. "We don't have time to chat now. Let's get outta here."

He led the way down the stairs, Dean pushing Margaret so she was between them. The darkness behind him freaked him out; anyone or any_thing _could be creeping up behind them. He wanted to call to his dad, ask for a gun, but if it was Kiera's tiny ballet slipper-clad feet falling into step behind his back, he didn't think he'd be able to shoot anyway.

Margaret's house was decorated cheaply, flaking white paint on the banisters and faded floral wallpaper on the walls, but the pictures hung along the staircase made Dean's stomach twist uncomfortably. Photos of Margaret with her hair shorter holding a smiling toddler, a younger Kiera in a sparkly party dress opening wrapped presents. A framed scribble of crayon that looked like a duck, Charlie's name printed neatly in the bottom left corner. It was a family home, and now it was forever tainted. Margaret would never feel safe here again, even assuming that both her children survived. Dean wished for the millionth time that he'd never brought Sam here.

The living room light was on, but John stepped quickly past it with only a cursory glance inside. Obviously his dad had checked the rooms before coming upstairs to free them.

The front door was left ajar. They filed down into the small hallway, Margaret pausing for a second to take a last longing look around her house.

In that silent pause, a sweet high voice rang out.

"Mommy? Where are you going?"

* * *

Caleb held tight to the Colt in his good hand, using the other to tap restlessly on his knee. The scene outside the truck hadn't changed; Missouri's house was still in darkness except for that one window. Every now and then a shadow would move across it, vague enough that Caleb couldn't tell if it was Missouri's silhouette or Sam's. God, he hoped the kid was okay.

Charlie hadn't said a word since John left, his thumb firmly wedged in his mouth despite the dirt-caked fingernails. The little boy was probably confused, completely overwhelmed. Caleb could remember feeling the same thing the first time he encountered something that couldn't be explained rationally. Although, he thought, he'd at least had time to grow up first, be a normal kid. But nothing had ever been the same since that day he'd walked in on his father being gutted by something with claws as long as his forearms, and most likely this boy would be changed forever too. Caleb allowed himself a second to feel bad about it, a second longer to feel a shameful sense of gladness. Charlie would grow up knowing there were bad things in the world, and maybe, just maybe, he'd be a fighter for the cause. One more warrior against the evil that lurked out there.

They needed as many on their side as they could get.

"Is momma gonna be okay?" The little boy looked up at him suddenly, big wide eyes in a face that looked so perfectly innocent it damn near broke Caleb's heart.

"Sure she is, if John has anythin' to say about it. John ain't gonna let her get hurt." He patted the boy on the shoulder. Unsurprisingly, it didn't seem to help much. Caleb turned towards the window again, pretending to be deeply involved in watching Missouri's house. He could still feel Charlie's brown eyes on him, and he winced. He was no good with young kids. "So, uh, what happened then, kiddo? With your momma and Missouri."

"'Sourri came to our house. She hit momma, and made my sister bad." Charlie spoke like he was reciting lines for a school play, no emphasis, no emotion.

"How'd you get out?"

"Didn't."

It took Caleb a second to process the single-word answer. He frowned, turning back to face the little boy.

A flash of demonic black eyes, empty of emotion and huge in that childish-chubby face. Caleb's mouth fell open, the beginning of a swear springing to his lips. Before he could say anything though, the wooden box that had held the Colt for all these months connected with the side of his head, and he was out.

* * *

Sam was panting for breath in his hunched position on the floor, his arms hanging limply over his bent knees and his head hanging forward. His hair itched with sweat and grease; he hadn't felt like taking a shower that morning, surprisingly.

"Sam, if you can't _focus-_" Missouri snapped, her voice suddenly sounding deep and almost masculine. She'd been pushing him, riding him hard and barking orders, and the craziest thing was, it'd _worked_. She'd told Sam to lift the water glass, and he'd lifted the water glass. It had floated, suspended in air half an inch off the floor, and Sam's face had broken into a smile for the first time since Dean had disappeared. He'd set it back down again, carefully, without spilling a single drop. Missouri had given him a smile and a 'good job'. And then she'd told him to lift it again.

His _mind _hurt, pulsed like a pumping heart, pressing against the inside of his skull with each contraction. And that shield he'd been keeping pulled over all of his secrets was slipping.

A knock on the front door startled both of them. Missouri's head turned towards the sound. For a second Sam was sure he saw the beginning of a smile grow on her lips, but her hand flew to her mouth, covering it.

"Oh my…" Her eyes were wide and she spared Sam a glance before running to the door.

With a grunt, Sam pushed himself to his feet and followed, one hand balanced on the wall.

In the hallway, Missouri was throwing open the front door with one hand. The porch light flickered, leaving sparks on his retinas, and Sam squinted, trying to ignore the fear that gripped him at the thought of _outside_.

"Charlie! Oh my- What are you doing here, sweetheart? Where's your momma?" Missouri's voice was high and panicked, and she turned, ushering the small boy in with a soft hand on his shoulder.

Charlie looked completely wretched. His face was tear-stained and shiny, dirt smudged over every inch of skin. The blue dungarees he wore were torn at the knees and wet with mud, trailing scuff-marks as the boy shuffled into the house. He looked up at Sam, tiny tremors running through his fragile body like wind through the fine branches of a tree.

"What happened, Charlie?" Missouri dropped to her knees, ignoring the mulch on her hardwood floor. She took both of Charlie's hands in her own, turning the boy to face her. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Charlie sniffed wetly, cuffing his runny nose with the sleeve of his shirt. His mouth worked over words that wouldn't come out.

Using the wall to support him, Sam moved closer. "Charlie?"

The boy looked up at him with the wide-eyed vacant expression of someone who'd seen terrible things. "A man came. He-he hurt momma." Charlie turned and pointed to the closed front door.

With a sick sense of trepidation Sam walked towards the door. His hand stilled on the doorknob for a moment – long enough for him to take a breath and flatten the painful fluttering in his chest, because _no one _was waiting to attack him on the other side – and then he opened it.

On the curb outside, in the same place the Impala had been only the day before, was John's big black truck. The watery light cast by the streetlights illuminated the bulky figure of a man slumped against the passenger side window.

Behind Sam, Charlie suddenly spoke again. "He's a bad man. He said he was gonna hurt you and Mister Dean."

"Charlie, what does he look like? Can you describe him?" Sam said, spinning back to face the little boy and deliberately ignoring the itch of leaving his back exposed to the outside world.

Charlie looked at him steadily, his face solemn and drawn. "He got a wheelchair. And his eyes turned yellow when he got angry with me."

The words were like a punch to the gut. _Caleb_. If Caleb was here, in John's truck, then where was John? Why wasn't Dean's father here, trying to help him? Sam's mind tried to put it together, spitting and stuttering like a drained there was _no time_, because Missouri was already squeezing long fingernails into the dip of Sam's collarbone, her splayed hand framing the vulnerable stroke of his neck as she stared across the front lawn.

"I can't read anything from him." She turned frightened eyes on Sam, the whites flashing like stars in the dim light. "If it's the demon, he's too strong for me."

"What…what do I do?" Sam said in a voice that sounded nothing like his own.

Charlie tugged on the cuff of his sleeve, leaving dirty black marks behind. "He said he had a gun to kill everyone with, 'cause it was magic."

Sam's eyebrows pulled together. "The Colt? He has the Colt?"

Charlie nodded, chewing on his bottom lip. "It fell. Over there." His eyes dropped to his feet as he spoke, and he pointed to Missouri's empty driveway.

More specifically, he pointed to _the gun_ lying in Missouri's empty driveway, polished silver and shining like a sword fallen on a battlefield.

Missouri's hands closed on his upper arms, her grip strong enough to hurt. "Sam, you have to kill him! You _have to_! This might be our only chance!"

_Kill_ him. _Kill _Caleb.

Sam could feel the words vibrating through his mind like an invisible person whispering in his ear. He didn't want to kill Caleb. Caleb was his friend, one of the few people who actually liked him.

He shook his head numbly. "No, no…"

Tendrils of _something_, slipping through the backdoor of his mind, creeping like ants on his skin…

"Sam, you have to do it!" Missouri's voice took on a possessive tone, demanding things he didn't want to do, _wouldn't _do.

Then why were his feet moving? Why was he walking down the driveway, each heavy footstep bringing him closer and closer to the Colt?

Why was he _outside_, when outside was so obviously _not _the place he wanted to be?

Missouri and Charlie were following him like mourners behind a funeral procession, their feet crunching in the gravel that surrounded the pretty flowerbeds on the lawn. Sam bent, dazed like he was in a dream, picking up the Colt in one hand. It seemed heavier than it had been the last time he'd held it, as if the weight of his responsibility was dragging it back down to the ground.

The streetlights overhead seemed to flicker and dim as he walked, electric sparks that sizzled and popped in his ears like they were alive.

As he moved closer to the car, he could see a bruise at Caleb's temple, sluggish blood oozing from the wound and running down over that long scar dissecting the side of his face. The other man was slouched with his head against the window, his eyes closed.

The hand holding the Colt rose slowly, until it was level with Sam's shoulder. Aimed at Caleb's motionless head.

Why was he doing this? Why was he aiming a gun at an unconscious man?

The rhythmic pulse in his head wriggled behind his eyes, tugged and tangled with the nerves there, sickening like fingers playing in his brain. It made him shudder, twist his head away, try to get whatever it was _out _of him.

"Sam! You have to kill him!" Missouri's voice rang loud and clear as a command from God. The words made Sam's eyes burn like they'd been seared in hot oil. His mouth opened in a soundless scream, and he felt tears leaking down the curve of his cheeks, the dips at the sides of his nose.

He didn't want to kill Caleb.

"Sam!"

Through streams of tears, Sam looked over his shoulder at Missouri. She stood on the sidewalk, neat and collected as ever, Charlie silent by her side.

His hand shook; the gun wavered.

"He's possessed by the demon, Sam. Kill him." Missouri spoke calmly now, almost conversationally, like she was discussing knitting patterns with her friends.

Sam blinked away the tears blinding him and almost immediately more took their place. His head felt heavy; too much, too many voices, all overloading his attempts at rationality.

And then something in his brain coiled, trying to shrug off the confusion and clouds. It wrapped around his thoughts like a snake, squeezing them tight and pushing them together. Sam _knew _this thing, whatever it was. It felt familiar, like the nerves in his hand or the veins running up his arm. He'd felt it, every time a vision had pushed its way free, whenever some bizarre new power had whipped out without his permission. It seemed to choke the fingers pulling at his brain, starving them of their power and cutting them away. Sam blinked, and he could think clearly again.

He raised the gun, and despite the sweat greasing the palm of his hand, it stayed steady.

Missouri's face drained of colour as Sam aimed the barrel of the gun, a precision shot that would hit her right between the eyes, just as Jim Miller taught him to.

"Sam? What-what are you doing? Caleb is possessed by the demon, _shoot him_!"

Sam swallowed hard. "Caleb's not the demon. _You_ are. It's always been you."

A nervous, near-hysterical laugh burst out of her and she wrung her hands, her eyes never leaving the black unwinking eye of the gun, just as a normal woman would do when confronted with a crazy guy threatening to shoot them. Sam's aim didn't falter. "Honey, whatever you're thinking-"

Sam cut her off brusquely. "No. No lies. I know you're possessed."

"_How_?" Missouri spread her arms wide, a visible tremor running through her and making her stumble on her feet. "Sam, think about this! The demon is _right there_! It's messing with your head! What proof do you have that I'm possessed?"

"You told me Dean left." Sam said simply. "Dean would _never _leave me, not without saying something first. So why don't you stop pretending, and tell me what you've done to him?"


	20. Chapter 20

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense… Betaed by the wonderful Phx :)

Okay, here is the last chapter! Thank you soo much to everyone who has reviewed over the course of this story, I hope you've enjoyed it :) There will be an epilogue coming up – I won't set a definite date for it, but it'll be over the course of the week sometime – and I'll reply to any reviews for this chapter and the epilogue, I know I've been terrible at keeping up with them so far!

Chapter 20

"_Mommy? Where are you going?"_

Dean's feet froze in place on hearing Kiera's voice. Cramped in the narrow dark hallway, it seemed to echo around them from all angles, and Dean couldn't tell which direction it originated from. In front of him, he could dimly make out the soft slopes of Margaret's shoulders and back. She sagged forward for a second, and then her spine straightened with an audible click of abused vertebrae. She turned bodily to face Dean, but when she spoke it wasn't him her words were directed at.

"Whoever, or _what_ever, you are, you are _not _my daughter."

A girlish giggle. "Mommy, don't be silly. Who else would I be?"

From around Margaret's thin body, Dean could see his father raising his gun in one hand, eyes scanning the darkness-shrouded furniture for his target. John took a step forward, away from the open door. It took him into the spill of light coming from the living room, and he stopped there, gaze darting between the bright room and the staircase they'd just descended.

The indecision cost him.

In a rustle of starched fabric, Kiera's small body launched from the shadows under the staircase, her tiny dirty hands closing around John's wrist. She used the leverage to drag John's arm down to her face, biting at the meat of his hand in the same way she would bite into an apple.

Margaret let out a sharp "No!" and threw herself at her daughter's form, her arms wrapping around the little girl's waist. Without hesitating or releasing her hold on John, Kiera shrugged her off like she was an irritating itch. Margaret staggered backwards, losing her footing and landing in a crumpled heap on the stairs

The narrow hallway was working against them; Dean struggled to climb over Margaret's splayed body, banging his shin on a low ridge sticking out of a table in the process. His legs weren't feeling all that steady to begin with – probably something to do with being left tied up for a day without food or water – and, feeling pretty ridiculous considering the current situation, he was forced to pause for a second to try and rub some feeling back into the limb.

His dad yelped as Kiera caught hold of his other hand, forcing him to bend awkwardly at the waist as he tried to fight her off. With a rough twist John managed to wrench his gun arm free; Kiera's weak body was fuelled by demonic power, but it was still only a young child's body, with a child's limited reach.

John's sleeve was soaked through with blood from Kiera's vicious bite, his grip on the gun slipping, but the hold the little girl had on his other arm actually helped, keeping her at a close range. He levelled the gun at her face, finger sliding along the trigger.

"No please don't!" Margaret scrambled to her feet, both arms wrapping around the banister as her feet got tangled in Dean's again. She reached a hand out, her gaze fixed on her child, the gun held inches from Kiera's forehead.

Her reaction made Kiera pause, her eyes focusing on the gun like it was a curious new toy. She blinked slowly, cocking her head and putting on a coy smile. "Are you gonna shoot me, mister?" She pulled at a curl of hair lying over her cheek, stretching it straight and then letting it spring back into place.

John's eyes narrowed to slits, and for a second Dean thought he was actually going to do it, _shoot _a little girl at point blank range.

So when John used the hand still gripped in Kiera's to swing her around, forcing her backward into the living room, Dean let out a loud breath he hadn't realised he was holding.

The muscles of John's broad back rippled under his shirt, blocking off Dean's view, but there was no gunshot, just a surprised gasp from Kiera. Margaret staggered towards the doorway, trying to shove past John to see her daughter.

"What…" Kiera said, sounding honestly childlike for the first time.

John's body relaxed and he stepped aside, breathing heavily. He glanced back at Dean, then met Margaret's eyes. "It's okay."

Dean took a step forward. Kiera was standing on a knitted throw rug in the middle of the room. There was a coffee table stood on its side, blocking the view of a TV set. John gave him a weary half-smile. "Stopped by here on my way upstairs." He took a step forward, kicking aside a corner of the rug to reveal the edge of a symbol, drawn on the wood floor in black marker. "It's called a Devil's Trap. Get a demon inside one, and it can't escape unless the circle is broken."

Margaret tore her gaze away from her daughter. "Is she…"

"We can exorcise the demon from her." John said. "She'll be okay for now. We can come back for her." _After we get Sam_,was implied in John's eyes. The force of sheer relief that hit Dean almost brought him to his knees. _Finally_. He squeezed his eyes shut tight. Finally, they were going to save Sam.

* * *

"_Dean would never leave me, not without saying something first. So why don't you stop pretending, and tell me what you've done to him?"_

It would be a strange sight to anyone walking by; a big black hulk of a truck, an unconscious man slumped inside with blood running in stark lines down his cheek. On the sidewalk beside the truck; a young boy wearing dirty dungarees, a middle-aged woman standing beside the boy with a hand on his shoulder, and Sam, sweating and jittery, probably looking like a junkie fresh out of rehab and in desperate need of a fix, pointing a gun at both of them.

Sam was absurdly grateful no one was walking by.

Missouri took a step towards him, her eyes focused on his face. "Sam, you're confused. The demon is messing with your mind, honey. You have to _fight_ it."

"No." He shook his head, his bangs flying. "I'm not confused, and the demon has been messing with my mind all along. It was you. I figured it out ages ago. What I can't figure out is _why_. Why bother with all the subterfuge?"

"Sam…"

He cocked the gun before she could say anything else, the _click _loud in the stillness of the night. "_Why_? Tell me, or I'll shoot you right now."

Missouri's lips thinned and she closed her eyes for a second, her face turned heavenward like an exasperated mother trying to find the strength to discipline an unruly child. She let out a heavy sigh.

And then unseen bonds caught hold of Sam's wrists, looping tight around his waist and _pulling_, pinning his body to the side of John's truck. The Colt was plucked from between his fingers, tossed over the fence surrounding Margaret's front lawn. Only a few feet away, and yet impossibly far. His neck was pulled back, bared for the demon, his arms stretched out on either side of the truck's side windows.

Sam's breath caught in his throat, stuttering. His eyes widened in a momentary panic – _touching him, someone was _touching _him, touches he hadn't invited, didn't want, couldn't control _– and he almost missed the milky yellow tinge to Missouri's eyes, sliding in place like a crocodile's second eyelid.

"I have my own _why _to ask you, Sam." She said, and it didn't sound like her voice at all. It was a growl, a deep masculine sound that curled in the air around him like cigarette smoke. "_Why _must you always make this so difficult? I'm trying to _help _you. To train you to be what you were _made _to be." Missouri stepped closer, into his breathing space, her head cocking to one side. A wry smile appeared, quirking one side of her mouth. "This would have been so much easier if you had simply done as you're told instead of asking all these useless questions."

Sam tugged against the force holding him in place; it felt like fighting against the ocean. He was pressed into the body of the truck as if a huge wave had risen up and slammed into him, swallowing him whole. He gritted his teeth, the cords in his neck drawn taut under the pressure. "I'm not gonna be whatever it is you want me to be."

"No?" The demon's smile grew. "I think you are." It clucked Missouri's tongue, shaking its head. "But it looks as if we'll have to do it the hard way. Just remember, I tried to play nice for you, Sam."

Invisible fingers, running over his chest, underneath his clothes, slipping, sliding down his belly, touching him, prodding bluntly at the thin skin there. He threw his head back, gasping as it connected with the roof of the truck with a dull thud. _No, no, no_. A flash of bared teeth, white in the corner of his vision. Reddened lumpy skin like half-melted wax, on a face that was too familiar. Gareth's face.

"More?" The demon's voice was low and seductive, _Missouri's _voice, but it wasn't enough to take away the illusion of Gareth, leaning into his body like it belonged to him.

"S-stop it." Sam's tongue felt swollen in his mouth, too clumsy to force out words. "Please."

"You can make it stop, Sam. Just _give in_." The demon whispered. Sam blinked hard, trying to see past the false images the demon was hiding behind.

But there was only Gareth, and John's truck was cold behind his back. John couldn't help him, Dean couldn't help him. Caleb had already been hurt once trying to protect him from this demon, and now he was lying unconscious behind a thin plate of glass, because of _Sam_, yet again. Gareth's shaven head moved closer, leaning into him, and no matter how much Sam told himself it _wasn't real_, those were lips pressing against his jaw, licking up his cheek. The smell of stale beer assaulted Sam, and then that mouth was against his, Gareth's thick wet tongue in his mouth.

_Sam? _

Gareth's hands were at the button of his jeans, toying with it like he was waiting for an invitation. Like this was the make-out portion of a date. The only date Sam had ever been on was with Dean; his seventeenth birthday. One perfect date.

The scene changed around him like he was having one of his visions. No hands were touching him, and Sam just breathed for a second in utter relief.

But then he took in the new illusion-surroundings, and he wanted to vomit. Because the demon had stolen the memory of his perfect date with Dean, every detail of the restaurant Dean had taken them to, down to the white candle and the single rose between them on the table. But instead of seeing Dean's shy smile across the table, it was Gareth's leering face that greeted him when he looked up. A foot brushed his and he tried to recoil, but he couldn't move.

_Sam! Listen to me!_

Gareth was leaning across the table, a messily wrapped present in one hand, and Sam knew what it was, Dean had given him that present. His hand reached out to take it, unwrapping it without his permission. He looked down, but it wasn't the first-edition hardback copy of 'On The Road' that Dean had given him for his birthday, the one he kept in brown paper in the trunk of the Impala. The book inside the wrapping was filled with porn; boys Sam's age being held down, broken and degraded, their legs spread obscenely while they were fucked by pot-bellied men.

Sam's fingers opened the book, turning pages and pages of filth until they stopped seemingly at random. He looked down at the picture that took up an entire page, and the scene depicted made bile rise in his throat.

The alley was photographed exactly as he remembered it, down to the overflowing dumpster in the corner and the big industrial fan embedded in one wall, the full moon rising overhead. Gareth stood in the centre of the page, apparently unconcerned by his nakedness as he looked down on an equally naked boy sprawled out in the garbage. Sam tried to close his eyes, tried _not to see_, but it was impossible. He was looking at his own body on the page, bleeding and freshly fucked, smears of dirt from the alley obscuring the expression on his face.

"Do you like your present?" The voice made him look up, meet that crude smile. He couldn't tell anymore if it was the demon's voice or Gareth's.

_Sam! This isn't real! You have to listen to me, please, we don't have much time!_

The scene shimmered like a mirage, and the second's pause gave Sam time to register the voice that _definitely _wasn't Gareth's or the demon's. It sounded familiar, but _not_, and he frowned in confusion.

Then the walls of the restaurant dissolved around him and Sam was in Missouri's house, standing outside his bedroom door. The floor was in darkness, and nothing moved around him. He looked, head spinning frantically from side to side, but there was no Gareth waiting for him in a shadowed corner.

What the hell was this?

He took a slow step forward, arms automatically wrapping around himself like he was cold and didn't know it yet. The door to Dean's room stood open, but the bed was neatly made and none of Dean's things were there. Sam glanced back over his shoulder; his bedroom was in a similar state, cleared of any trace of his presence.

"_Sam, are you there?"_

His head snapped forward, eyes scanning the hallway for the source of the sound. His gaze stuttered to a halt on the closed door leading to Missouri's room; the ornate lock that had replaced the simple door knob. He'd seen this lock before.

"_We don't have time, Sam, you have to listen to me!"_

The voice came from behind the door, and Sam found himself kneeling by the keyhole before he realised he was going to move. "Who…"

A slightly-hysterical laugh cut him off before he could finish speaking, the sound muffled through the door. _"Oh Lord, child, _finally_!"_

Sam's eyes widened. "M-Missouri? Is that…you? Really, I mean?"

"_Yes, honey. I've been trying to talk to you for _days _now, but you're a stubborn thing, aren't you? Never mind, we don't have much time. Azazel isn't going to be happy about this, you can bet your life on it."_

"You…you were in my dream." Sam said stupidly, his brain feeling like it'd been put through a blender. "Did you…that paper about shielding? Did you leave that for me?"

Missouri ignored his questions. _"Sam, listen to me now, child. Dean's coming to help you, but he's not gonna be able to do much if you can't distract Azazel long enough for him to reach the Colt."_

Sam's heart lurched into his throat, his eyes burning with sudden tears. "Dean? Dean's coming?" He'd known that Dean would never leave him, even as the demon showed him the empty space that the Impala had once been parked in, but hearing that Dean was actually _here and coming_ still felt like someone had cut away the ropes that had been slowly choking him without Dean's presence at his side.

"_Sam, _listen_! Dean needs time to get to the Colt; you need to keep Azazel's attention on _you_. Can you do that, sweetie?"_

Sam nodded, still hung up on the miraculous fact of _Dean_, coming to find him. And then he frowned, processing Missouri's words, what she _hadn't _said. "But, the demon, it's in _you_. If Dean has the Colt-"

Missouri interrupted. _"It's okay, Sam. I know what I'm asking." _She cut herself off short before the tiny wobble in her voice could go any further. When she spoke again, Sam could hear the sad smile that must have been on her face. _"As long as the good guys win, sweetheart. That's all that matters."_

He swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut. His hand pressed against the cool wood barrier keeping Missouri prisoner, and he _hated _that he couldn't break it down and set her free. Hated that he and the people he loved always had to make the hard decisions.

A shudder ran through the door. Sam blinked away tears that weren't really there, snatching his hand away from the wood like it was molten hot. The same shudder ran through the wood again, except it was more of a ripple, like the hard surface had been turned to liquid.

"_Sam, I'm sorry, we don't have any more time!"_ Missouri called through the warping door, her voice hoarse and desperate. _"Remember, keep the demon distracted, just for a little longer!"_

"Missouri!" Sam tried to reach out again, some bizarre part of his mind insisting that he could still save her, maybe pull her through the dissolving door. But it was as if the surfaces were melting, sagging down and pulling him under with their weight, and he gasped instinctively as they pressed down…

When he opened his eyes, it was Azazel's yellow stare that he saw. The demon was inches away from his body, and despite Missouri's diminutive height Sam's breath still caught at the restrained power the body held.

Azazel's head cocked to one side, its expression set hard and blank as an empty page. When it spoke, its voice was deceptively calm. "So. I assume you had a little chat with our friendly psychic. What did she tell you?"

Sam screwed up every ounce of courage he had and met the demon's eyes with a snarl. "She told me to kill you, even if I have to kill her too."

The demon laughed, shaking its head. "Ah, so self-sacrificing, our little psychic lady. Did she tell you it's her own fault she got possessed in the first place? She took down her own wards. Funnily enough, she was trying to check whether I was in the neighbourhood, in case you and Deano ran into any trouble getting here. Unfortunately, she didn't see me coming for _her _until it was too late."

"You bastard." Sam said in the hardest voice he could manage. "I promise you, this is going to end tonight."

The demon smiled broadly, glancing back at Charlie's small body, still standing patiently on the sidewalk. "Yes, I think it is." Charlie nodded like an order had been given, turning to face the house.

No, not the house. Charlie was facing _Margaret's house_, and Sam frowned in incomprehension.

Until he noticed the light on in the living room. Missouri had told him Margaret had taken the kids away, but if Charlie was still here, and possessed by a demon…

His heart gave a violent wrench, just as the front door to Margaret's house swung open, John Winchester striding out with Margaret and Dean – _Dean _– in tow. Sam opened his mouth to yell, but one of those invisible hands tightened painfully around his throat, cutting off his air.

"Johnny!" Azazel turned around, walking towards the three figures like they were all old friends meeting on the street. John froze on seeing the scene, arms flung out like he could protect Dean and Margaret with his body. One of his sleeves was dark with blood. His eyes narrowed, and Sam saw the moment he put it all together.

The demon grinned wide. "So _nice _to run into you again! And Dean too; my, we _do _have a reunion here!"

Dean was trying to push past his father's outstretched arm, eyes wide and desperate. "Sam! Sammy!"

_Dean_, Sam wanted to say, but the hand on his neck tightened again and all that came out was a tiny pathetic puff of breath. His fingers curled against the smooth surface of the truck; the only movement the demon was allowing him.

"You fucking bastard." John growled low in his throat.

Azazel made a _tskk_ing noise, pursing his lips in mock disappointment. "You know, Johnny, I thought you were smarter than this. I mean, I didn't even have to _work_ for this," the demon spread its arms, a mirror of John's position, "you just handed it to me on a plate."

"Charlie!" Margaret managed to force her way past John and Dean, her eyes set on the little boy. She stumbled across the lawn, bare feet slipping on grass, only pausing to wrench open the gate. Sam struggled against the unseen ties, mouthing furiously at the air, but she didn't look at him once. And when she fell to her knees in front of her child, tears springing to her eyes, Sam had to close his own. His face twisted at the dull meaty thump, and when he opened them again, Margaret was a crumpled heap on the sidewalk at Charlie's feet.

The sound was followed by two almost simultaneous thumps that made Sam's gaze snap back to the demon.

John and Dean were pinned to the wall of the house, just as Sam was, their eyes wide.

Suddenly his throat was released, and words spilled out like water from a brooked dam. "No! No, let them go, please! You don't need to hurt them, _please_!"

Azazel turned to him, a smirk warping its stolen face into something unnatural. "Well, now, Sammy. You know how you can make this stop, don't you?" It cocked its head, walking back towards him with a sinuous grace. When it got close enough, it lowered its voice to a hissing whisper. "_Give in_."

Sam shuddered; he couldn't help the reaction to that crawling dirty tone.

The demon didn't stop though. "Give in to me, Sam. _Learn _what I have to teach you. I'll leave them alone; I promise. I'll even find a new body" the demon reached out, a surprisingly gentle hand stroking Sam's cheek "if, of course, that's what you want." The almost motherly tone to its voice combined with those sickly yellow eyes made Sam want to retch. The hand was snatched away again. "Or I could just torture them until you give in. It's your choice, Sam."

"Sammy! Don't you listen to it, whatever it says!" Dean yelled, yanking at his own limbs. Sam could see the white strain to his body, and he wished with all his heart that Dean _had _left him. If he'd gone after Gareth, then he'd be miles away, out of this, _safe_. But Dean wasn't safe. Dean was here, and so were John and Caleb, Margaret and Charlie and probably Kiera too.

So was the demon.

His eyes fluttered shut and his head fell back against the car. He knew what he had to do.

"Fine." He whispered, hating how broken he already sounded. "Fine. You win. Just don't hurt them."

* * *

"Sammy!" Dean coughed as he was pressed back into the wall, a psychic force hard and heavy on his rib cage. It didn't matter though. All that mattered was getting to Sam. The kid was _so close_…

"Now, Dean, stop struggling." The demon in Missouri's body smiled at him, using the exact same expression it had worn as it handed him a plate of eggs for breakfast, reassured him Sam would be fine. It made Dean sick to think that he'd lived in the same house as that thing for over a week. He glanced up and down the road, hating himself for hoping some innocent bystander would stumble into their mess and distract the demon long enough for one of them to actually _do _something. But the street was deserted, there were no interruptions to be had – just how the demon wanted it. Dean wondered if that was really a coincidence.

He bared his teeth at it as it moved in closer. "Go screw yourself, you sonovabitch."

"Now, is that any way to talk to the guy who's going to be taking care of Sam for you?" The corner of its mouth curled up, and Dean's heart gave a painful clench. The expression stretched into a victorious smile, like it felt Dean's agony and fed off it. "Don't worry, he'll be in good hands. But, I think I'll be keeping you and your father, just to make sure he stays in line."

"Leave him alone!" John snarled. His father was clearly fighting against the bonds holding him to the wall, his jaw clenched and his chest heaving with exertion. His bloody hand was flexed into a claw, and as Dean watched, John managed to force it half an inch, an inch away from the wall. The demon glanced at him, eyebrows raised, and his arm snapped back into place like it was attached to the wall with elastic. John's mouth was screwed up tight, but a muffled grunt escaped.

"Johnny, Johnny, Johnny." The demon shook its head slowly. "It's a shame, isn't it? No matter what you do, you just can't seem to keep these boys out of trouble."

A flicker of movement caught Dean's eye, and hope bloomed in his chest. But it was only Charlie walking up the path leading to Margaret's front door. The little boy's eyes were black as tar, and as the boy drew closer, Dean could see his own face reflected in those curved empty circles, twisted out of all proportion. He wondered for a second about Margaret, whether she was okay, alive even, out on the sidewalk.

The demon turned back to Dean, that sick grin firmly in place. "Well, Deano. This seems familiar, doesn't it?"

"You leave Sam alone, y'hear me!"

It shrugged, a smooth movement that made Missouri's jade necklace glint in the dull light. "I have no intention of hurting Sam."

That made Dean's anger falter for a second, confusion overtaking him. It grew as he felt the pressure on his ribs lessen.

The demon continued to speak. "Why would I want to hurt him? He's the entire reason I'm here. Although," the pressure let off suddenly, and without it holding him in place, Dean pitched forward like every one of his muscles had given out "I do think Sam could use a…_demonstration_. A warning, if you like. What's going to happen if he decides to try and fight me."

A hand gripped Dean's shoulder, Missouri's long nails digging into his collarbone. The unnatural strength in that body held him up, dragging him closer to where Sam lay against the truck, splayed out like a sacrificial victim. As they moved closer, Dean could see Sam's eyes widening in fear.

"Wait, wait! You said you wouldn't hurt them! You said, if I did what you wanted..."

"Yes, but I don't think you really _meant _it, Sammy-boy." The demon sounded positively gleeful at the chance to show off its powers. "So we're going to do a little show-and-tell."

Dean was pushed face-first into Margaret's muddy lawn, and he coughed as too-long grass poked him in the eyes and mouth.

The grass didn't bother him for long.

The demon started small; a gradually increasing weight between his shoulder blades, like someone had put a foot there and was leaning into him. But it grew, and grew, until his already-sore ribs were creaking under the strain and he was gaping without sound. The _pain_ of it was agonising, but nothing compared to hearing Sam begging, crying, pleading with the damn demon. Dean's own eyes teared up as he listened to Sam promise, over and over and over, that he'd do _anything_, as long as it left Dean alone. John was screaming in the background somewhere, but it ran together like a hum of white noise, crackling in and out like static. All Dean could hear was Sam, making stupid foolhardy promises.

With a great sucking breath, Dean used what little lung power he had left. "No…Sam…"

"Uh-uh, Dean. No talking, now." The demon said in a gentle voice, and it threw Dean back to being four years old, his mom tucking him into bed and telling him to lie back and close his eyes, even when he insisted he wasn't sleepy. "You see, Sam?" The demon said in a louder voice. "You see what will happen if you break your word to me?"

Dean's eyes rolled back in his head; he couldn't help it. It _hurt _so bad, and he writhed like a bug being tortured by a little kid, helpless and insignificant, so easily crushed should the demon decide it was bored with him.

The sound of the shotgun took him by surprise, breaking through even his oxygen-deprived haze.

The weight on his back was suddenly lifted, and Dean rolled over, gasping for air. He barely had the strength to lift his little finger, but he _had to know what was going on_, so with a long drawn-out moan, he pushed himself up onto his elbows.

And a laugh caught in his throat.

Caleb, unsteady and bleeding from the head. The shaven-headed man was half-sprawled over the hood of the truck, a shotgun clutched tightly in his good hand, the other clawing for purchase on the shiny metal. The older man flashed Dean a pained grin. "Fancy meetin' you here, kiddo."

"Caleb…" Dean threw a glance over his shoulder.

Missouri's body lay face-down on the lawn, faint curls of smoke spilling out from around her neck.

A hand landed on Dean's shoulder and he gasped in pain, but it was only John, running fingers over his arm and neck, checking for damage.

Damage.

_Sam_.

Dean's head flashed up again, to where Sam was leaning against the truck. No, not leaning. Stretched out, still, like he was pinned up there, held in place on a mediaeval torture rack.

He met his dad's eyes, saw the same fear reflected in them.

And then the weight fell back onto him, dropped in the pit of his stomach and pressing him down. Beside him, he felt John succumb to the same pressure.

"You don't think it's that easy to kill me, do you? C'mon, boys, really. You know only the Colt can kill me for good."

Dean forced his eyes open.

What he saw made him gag. Missouri's body, the throat completely blown out, but yet somehow she was still speaking, still moving like it didn't even matter. Strands of flesh hung from the gaping wound, her blouse soaked through with blood, and Dean thought he could see a flash of white – a flash of _spine _– through the fist-sized hole in her oesophagus. The demon pushed itself carefully to its feet, dusting off the long skirt it wore like a few specks of mud and dirt made a difference to its appearance.

It breezed past Dean and John like it didn't even see them, the hem of the skirt brushing over Dean's clenching hand. He couldn't even make himself grab at it.

"So, Sam. Do you see now, what will happen? Are we in agreement?"

Dean screamed in his mind, _no nonono, please_, but all he could do was lay there. Useless.

* * *

It was like watching one of his visions play out; knowing he could do nothing but bear witness to someone else's pain and hating it because there _should be something he could do_. But all the strength had been sapped from him, and Sam could only watch as the people he cared about lay gasping around him like beached fish.

As _Dean _lay writhing on the ground in front of him.

A coolness had fallen over him, pulling him away from his frenzied emotions and forcing him to think clearly. At first he thought it was Missouri – the _real _Missouri – manipulating him in some way. But it didn't feel like an outside force; there wasn't the confused mess of someone else's feelings and drives getting in the way. No, this was all him. Except he didn't think he'd ever actually _felt _this part of himself before, not so strongly. It was the same part of his mind that ached every time he tried to pull one of his psychic powers out, the same part that flexed and contracted like a snake behind his eyes. It felt…not entirely _natural_. But not _evil _either, and he supposed that was as much of a reassurance as he was going to get.

It was strange; he thought the part of himself that the demon had put there would be bowing down to its creator, pulling him along with it. Making him do whatever Azazel wanted from him.

Dean was still making tiny aching sounds, his limbs jerking spasmodically like he'd been electrocuted, and all the while he was begging Sam silently with his eyes. Begging him _not _to do it, not to give in to the demon.

Like Sam was really going to let Dean suffer a second longer than he needed to.

"So, Sam?" Azazel asked sharply, all hints of playfulness gone from its tone. Sam's gaze caught on that jagged rip in its throat. His heart stuttered for a second; that was _Missouri's _body being dragged around, defiled. Even though Sam had never really met the woman, she'd still helped him the best she could. She'd still given her life for the cause. Sam swallowed, hard.

Missouri was dead, and her body needed to be put to rest.

"_Dean needs time to get to the Colt; you need to keep Azazel's attention on _you_. Can you do that, sweetie?"_ Missouri's words replayed in his head, and he nodded as if she was speaking to him. He could do that.

He closed his eyes, pulling together every strand of focus and determination he had. Moulding them, shaping them into a shield, just like the one he'd been holding up since Dean had disappeared. The bubble-shaped energy formed in his mind, strengthened by the sounds of Dean's helpless whimpers. He _would _do this. He would do it, to save Dean.

It built, and built, swelling up until he thought the top of his skull would blow off from the force of it. The not-evil-but-not-entirely-natural part of his mind soothed the ache, and it felt _right_, like he'd finally learned to walk after discovering he'd been doing it wrong all these years.

"What are you doing?" The demon's voice had lost some of its arrogance, and Sam let a tiny smile pull at his lips. He was doing what he should have been doing all along. If Azazel had meant for him to be a weapon, he'd be a goddamn weapon. But _he _was the one in control this time. This was _his _power, and he was going to use it.

He sagged against the unseen binds pinning him to the truck, letting the demon hold him. All his strength, every inch of him was pushed into the shield he was creating.

And then he let it go.

* * *

Dean had no idea what was happening.

He lay on his back, the wet grass soaking through his shirt and calming some of the pain that had taken up residence in his muscles, and blinked dumbly. Beside him, he could feel his father doing the same.

The demon was _howling_, hands clutching the sides of its head like something was trying to burrow its way out. There was no pressure holding Dean down anymore; it had suddenly vanished, like someone had hit the off switch. Charlie made an attempt to run to the demon's side, but apparently the off switch had been hit for all of them, because John was suddenly there, hauling the demonic little boy back and drenching him in Holy Water from his hip flask, muttering something under his breath.

Sam was a crumpled heap on the sidewalk, his eyes closed. Dean couldn't even tell if the kid was _breathing_, and despite the jelly-like feel to his bones, he valiantly tried to crawl towards Sam. There was no panic fuelling him, just a calm determination.

Sam had to be okay. There was no other options. He _had to be okay_.

The demon thrashed wildly, stumbling back against the fence running around Margaret's front lawn. Dean ignored it. It didn't matter.

_Sam_ was all that mattered.

And then his fingertips brushed cool metal. He looked down, somehow knowing exactly what he'd see.

The Colt. Ready and loaded, just waiting for someone to pick it up, aim it and pull the trigger. Like it had been left there, just for him.

"Dean!" At the sound of his name, Dean looked back to see John holding Charlie's body against the wall of the house, the Holy Water raised over the boy's head like a threat. John met his eyes, set and hard. Nodded once. "Do it."

Dean's fingers slipped around the icy cold gun like it had been made for him. The familiar feeling of power swept through his system, dragging him to his feet when he thought his energy reserves had been completely exhausted. He knew how to do this, how to shoot to kill. This was his _job_.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. As if it had heard his thoughts, the demon turned to face him, its eyes bulging like something was trying to squeeze them out through its eye sockets. Dean raised the gun without hesitating.

He pulled the trigger, and a tiny hole appeared in the centre of the demon's forehead. It looked incredulous for a split-second, yellow lightning snapping in its eyes. Dean's smile widened into something feral. "Fuck you, you sonovabitch. Go to hell."

Then the body fell to the floor with a wet thump, the lightning flickering and dying, and Dean could finally _breathe_.


	21. Epilogue

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense…

Here is the epilogue, finally :) I'd like to say a huge thank you to my wonderful beta Phx – without her help, this story wouldn't be half as good :) And thank you to everyone who has reviewed over the course, I can't tell you how much I've appreciated hearing what you think of the story! I hope you enjoy this final part…

Epilogue

Sam was quite possibly lying in the most uncomfortable position _ever_. His ass felt sore and bruised, and the hard cold surface his hip was digging into made him feel stiff as an old man with arthritis. His body was twisted sharply, his legs going one way and his torso another, and there was a nagging fly buzzing around his head. He frowned, trying to gather the strength to swat it away.

Something bumped him, and his head lolled backwards on his neck. He felt weak and pitiful as a newborn baby.

The buzzing started to break up into words, words his mind had to work to put together. _"Sam? Sammy, wake up! C'mon Sammy, open your eyes!"_ His face scrunched up; he didn't want to open his eyes. He liked the dark, and he had been enjoying the quiet, until the stupid fly started bugging him.

"_Sammy, look at me, please!" _Why did the fly want him to look at it? It didn't make sense.

Another fly started speaking, this one sounding…growlier. _"Dean, get him in the truck! The cops'll be here any minute; we can help Sam once we're clear of this mess."_

Soft hands, stroking his face and hair. The touch reminded him of something, something he should be feeling… Scared, maybe? Should he be scared of the hands? But they felt so good on his hot skin, soothing. They were good hands, he decided. Good hands, not bad hands. They were allowed to touch him.

They scooped him up suddenly, pulling him back until he was pressed flush against a warm body, arms wrapping tight around him. Another set of hands caught his legs behind the knees, lifting until he was suspended in the air. A twist, and he was being moved, feet first. It was strange, and Sam wondered if this was how furniture felt, being manhandled into different places with no say in where it was going.

A long creaking noise; a car door being opened, his mind told him. His legs were hoisted up and _in_, while the other end of him was pushed in the same direction. A squishy surface under his butt, and a hand propping him up while someone else climbed onto the surface beside him. Then the hand gentled, pulling him in close until his nose was pressed into nice-smelling skin. _"It's okay, Sammy. It's okay now; I'm here, I gotcha. Not going anywhere."_ A voice mumbled, close to his ear, and he should _know _that voice. But it was too hard to think, and everything was so soft and warm around him, so safe. He snuggled in closer to the body beside his and floated away.

* * *

Dean's head was a mess.

It was _over_, and it felt like the scene should cut, the curtain should fall, fade to black. And he was tempted to let it happen, close his eyes and lie down and let it finish without him, because hadn't he done enough? Wasn't he entitled to rest now?

But exhaustion had never been an excuse to John Winchester, and looking at his father, Dean could tell the older man was fighting the same battle against his fatigue as he was. But he was still moving, doing what needed to be done. Dean looked at his dad, hauled in a deep breath that ached at his ribs, and finished what he'd started.

_Sam_.

The kid was unconscious on the sidewalk. Dean slumped down against the truck, wincing at the fire-burn in his muscles as he reached out, hesitating for a moment with his hands hanging in the air – what if Sam came around and freaked out at being touched? – before shrugging it off and trying to pull Sam into his lap. The kid might be injured, he justified. He needed to touch him to check him over.

Dean's panic returned full-force as Sam's limp body sagged against him like a rag doll, light and dead-feeling, and he found strength to shake the kid as he told him to _wake up, please Sammy_ in a voice that grew louder with each repetition.

His dad cut him with a command off before he could start screaming.

Everything seemed to be happening so _fast_; John barking orders, staggering around like a solder under enemy fire, one minute pulling Sam's unconscious body into the trunk, the next minute marching ushering a dazed Margaret into the front seat, practically tossing Charlie onto her lap. The poor kid was confused and crying, shaking so hard Margaret was having trouble holding onto him. Dean was surprised for a second – honestly, he'd thought the kid was dead, or as good as, after John's not-so-careful manhandling combined with the strain of possession on a tiny fragile body.

Caleb was groaning and clutching at the open door of the truck, insisting he was alright, he could climb in himself, but John bodily shoved him in the back with Sam and Dean anyway. Once everyone was loaded up, John turned and marched back to Margaret's house, and Dean blinked before he remembered Kiera, still possessed and locked in that tiny circle in the living room.

He deliberately kept his gaze averted from Missouri's body. It seemed to be the only thing _not _moving, not making some kind of pained noise.

Sam was bundled up against Dean, and he closed his eyes for a second, just letting himself feel the rhythmic rise-fall of the kid's chest against his. The kid seemed to come around for a second earlier, his face pulling into a slight frown as Dean begged him to wake up, and Dean hoped like hell it was a good sign. That it meant Sam wasn't irreparably damaged in some way that only a doctor would be able to find.

There would be no doctors this time. They couldn't chance it, not with Missouri dead on the sidewalk. The loss of the demon's influence would mean that someone would walk by sooner or later, and they needed to be gone when it happened. Dean pressed a hard kiss to the top of Sam's head, lingering to breathe in the warm sweet scent of the kid's hair. It was kind of greasy, like he hadn't washed it that morning, but it was _Sam_, and he could have been covered from head to toe in horse crap and Dean would still be trying to get him _closer_.

John came striding back out of Margaret's house, Kiera's still body in his arms. In the front seat, Margaret let out a low moan.

"Hey, no, she's okay." Caleb said suddenly. "Look, she just moved." Dean thought the older man was probably making it up; Kiera looked pale and icy-cold in John's arms as he approached the truck. But then the little girl's eyes fluttered open, latching onto her mother, and it seemed like that was the motivation Margaret needed. She scrambled for the truck door handle, one arm wrapped tight around Charlie.

"Hey, don't do that!" Caleb said, reaching forward to touch her shoulder.

She wrenched away like he'd tried to burn her, aiming a blazing glare at them. "You think I'm going to _stay here_, with _you people_? My babies nearly _died_ because of you!"

John narrowed his eyes at her, thrusting Kiera into her arms with enough force to push Margaret back into the truck. "Well, if you wanna keep your kids out there on the sidewalk with a dead body, answer some police questions, be my guest."

Scowling, Margaret settled down, gathering Kiera and Charlie to her with both arms. "Fine. But this is only until we're out of town. Then you drop us off somewhere and you _leave_. I don't ever want to see any of you again."

John spared her a steely glance as he climbed into the driver's seat. Then he was turning the key in the ignition, gunning the engine, and getting them the hell out of there. Dean closed his eyes as the truck took off down the street, rubbing his face in Sam's hair again. They'd be okay now. They _had to _be okay.

He was pulled out of his thoughts at the sound of John's voice.

"…yeah, it's done. We're on our way to you now, prob'ly stop off at a motel for the night."

Dean craned his neck to see around the driver's seat without jostling Sam. John was talking to someone on his cell phone. He looked over at Caleb, eyebrow raised in question.

Caleb grunted, shifting in his seat before answering. "Sam's friend Stephen."

"Oh." Dean knew there should be more to say on the matter, but all he could think was _Sam Sam Sam_. It played on a loop through his tired mind, telling him he should be doing more, doing _something_, making it right.

Instead he turned his face to the night pressing against the window, watching with detachment as streetlights turned into shooting stars when John put his foot to the gas pedal. He tugged Sam closer, pulled the kid's legs across his lap, ostensibly to give Caleb more room on his side of the seat. Sam let out a soft sigh against his neck, a second of warmth on his skin that turned just as quickly to chills.

* * *

It was gone midnight when Sam decided to wake up.

He'd been drifting between unconscious and light sleep when he heard a clock chiming somewhere out in the night, but he couldn't bring himself to pull into full wakefulness, mostly because he just felt so _warm_. He was lying on his back, spread out like a starfish on something soft but firm, and there was something else covering him, a heavy weight that only added to the cocoon of safety. Everything felt good, muted and quiet and distant. Although his memory was shady and unclear, he knew it had been a while since he'd been allowed to just drift, free and easy. He wanted to enjoy it, just for a little while.

But then his cover started to tremble.

Sam dragged himself from sleep in time to catch Dean mumbling broken sentences into the side of his neck; "…god, so sorry Sammy, I shoulda been there, never should've touched you, darlin'…"

Sam opened his eyes carefully, wincing as his gaze caught on the bare light bulb hanging above the bed. A quick glance from side to side told him that they were in a motel room, cream-painted walls and a dusty bedspread, a painting hung on the wall opposite that was trying to be modern art but looked more like a child's finger painting experiment gone wrong. Nothing special about the room, but it made Sam smile all the same, because it meant that they were out of Lawrence. It took him a second to remember why that was a good thing, and then he wished he could forget all over again.

Missouri's body was probably still lying on the sidewalk outside her cosy house. Used and then abandoned like yesterday's trash. Sam couldn't imagine Dean or John wasting valuable getaway time on making the body more presentable, more dignified. Sam couldn't blame them for it, but he wished he could have done something, closed her eyes with thumb and forefinger or brushed her hair off her face, like the people in movies did when one of the good guys was killed.

The instinctive stiffening of his body as his memories returned told Dean he was awake, and for a second they both lay there breathing in silence. Then Dean pushed himself up suddenly, propping a forearm on either side of Sam's head so his upper body wasn't in contact with Sam's, and the terrified expression on the older man's face made everything else drop away. Dean was here and alive, and even though Sam hadn't ever let himself think about Dean actually _being _dead, a tiny part of him had been screaming it the whole time they'd been apart.

"Sam…"

Sam cut Dean off with a hard kiss, his arms wrapping around the older man's waist, pulling him back into the bed. Dean responded like he'd been starved for it, one hand tangling and restlessly tugging through his hair, the other cupping the side of his face. His thumb brushed along the line of Sam's cheekbone, a gentle contrast to the desperation Sam could feel in his kiss. Dean pressed their bodies into the mattress, every inch of them as close as he could get without removing clothes. For a brief second Sam thought of a dirty alleyway and another man pressing against him, but then Dean pulled away, keeping his forehead against Sam's as he panted into the half-inch space between their mouths. "God, I love you. Don't ever do that again, y'hear?"

Sam didn't have a chance to respond. Dean was already surging forward to reclaim his lips, stealing his breath along with it. Sam curled his fingers in the back of Dean's shirt, wanting so desperately to wrap himself into the other man, be eaten up by Dean's lips and knotted into his body and live the rest of his life loving him more than anything, ever.

Dean rolled over onto his side, pulling Sam along with him without breaking their kiss. A firm thigh inserted itself between Sam's legs, and he felt a whisper of arousal at the friction, despite knowing that it wasn't about _that_. Instead Dean wrapped his own arms around Sam, holding him in place against his chest while his mouth ravaged Sam's with an intensity that made him shake.

He kissed Dean back, hard and biting, because this was _everything _and he needed Dean to know it too. Dean's breath stuttered in his chest, his heart pounding, and Sam could feel it like it was his own.

By the time they'd burned off some of the urgency he was lightheaded from lack of oxygen. He turned his head away, rubbing his nose against Dean's in an Eskimo kiss and feeling kind of silly about it until he saw the look in Dean's eyes. The cool air hit his face, soothing across his burning cheeks, and he closed his eyes, nuzzling at Dean's jaw. "I love you, too."

"That's good. I woulda felt pretty stupid about sayin' it if you didn't." Dean smiled shyly, his hands moving up and down Sam's back like he couldn't stand not to be touching as much of him as possible. He tugged Sam back into another kiss, this time slower and sweeter, fading away until it was just a touch of Dean's lips against his. Sam could feel it when Dean whispered _"I love you" _a second time, the words caught in his mouth and swallowed down, spreading through his veins until it felt like he was glowing with it, filled from the inside out.

He watched Dean watching him, grinning so wide he thought his face might break. Dean would probably have made fun of him for it, if the older man hadn't had the same sloppy grin on his own face. One of Dean's hands reached up to brush away his bangs, lingering as Sam leaned into the touch. It was perfect, a perfect moment that Sam wanted to live in forever.

Except the hand trapped under Dean's body was prickling with pins-and-needles, and he couldn't hide a wince as he twisted it free. Dean caught it immediately, a concerned frown replacing his grin.

"You okay? Is your head hurting? Do you want some painkillers?"

"What? No, no, my head's fine." Sam said, eyebrows raised. "Why, did I hit it when I passed out or something?"

"No, but when you used your psychic thing the last time, your head was all…" Dean fluttered his fingers in the air beside his own head. "Y'know. Bleeding, and stuff."

"Huh." Sam blinked, cocking his head to one side. The last time he'd faced off with the demon, his brain had been haemorrhaging and his eyes had been bleeding. He'd been wearing sunglasses for a week because sunlight brought on blinding headaches, and the doctors told him his blood pressure was so high he was in danger of a stroke. "I feel…fine. No headache. Not even a nosebleed." He met Dean's eyes, shrugging one shoulder. "Weird."

Dean's expression was a mix of concern and relief. "Yeah. Maybe you just got used to it? Like, immunity by exposure, or something."

"I dunno." Could you get immune to psychic abilities? Somehow Sam doubted it. He didn't even know exactly what he'd _done_, but it felt like something big. Something huge. It had been enough to hurt a _fallen angel_, and as far as they knew, nothing but the Colt could do that.

Dean stroked a thumb down the side of his neck, derailing his train of thought completely. With a smirk, Sam leaned forward to kiss him again, just because Dean was here and they were in love and he _could_. When he pulled away, Dean was fighting a losing battle with that sloppy grin.

"So, uh, what happened? After I passed out, I mean?" Sam asked.

"Not much. I killed the demon, we jumped in the truck, drove outta state and here we are. On the bed. Together." Dean leaned back in for another kiss.

Sam leaned away, his heart clenching tight. "The demon's dead? Are you _sure_ this time? Is everyone okay? Are Margaret and the kids…"

Dean stroked a feather-light touch over Sam's cheek. "Hey, calm down, kiddo. The demon is dead. Shot the bastard myself." A smile pulled at his lips. "The job's done, Sammy."

Something in Sam broke free, and for the first time he felt unfettered. The one thing his entire life had been about, and it was done. There were no responsibilities weighting him down, nothing he had to do or worry about or research. His mom and Dean's mom and all the other mom's and families whose lives had been ruined, they'd all been avenged.

He was _free_.

Dean continued talking, a gentle smile on his face like he felt the same escape as Sam did. "And everyone's okay. The kids are pretty shook up, and I think Margaret hates us more than the damn demon did, but they're okay. Dad bought them the room next to us. Him and Caleb are in the room on the other side of them." He nodded at the wall with the finger-painting picture hanging on it. "By the way, you coulda told me you called Stephen."

"Stephen?" Sam's eyes went wide. "Stephen's here?"

"No, but apparently he got your email. Dad and Caleb got into some trouble with the demon's kids, and he sent some guys to get them out of it. He was the one who masterminded the whole rescue scheme at Missouri's."

For some reason, hearing that Stephen had come through for him, had _worried _about him, made tears prick at the back of Sam's eyes. Dean smiled like he could tell and continued talking in a softer voice. "I'm gonna have to think of some way to thank the guy. Maybe bake him a cake or something. Or buy him a pot plant. Isn't that what people do?"

Sam grinned, dizzy and high with a multitude of emotions. "I don't know about him, but I'd _love _to see you try to bake. Would you wear an apron?"

"Damn right. If you're real good, maybe I'll let you lick the spoon." Dean winked as he said it. Then his face turned bright red. "Uh, that is, the _actual_ spoon, that I'd use, to mix the cake, not like…what you might have thought, if you were thinking…something."

Sam almost choked trying to hold back a laugh.

A knock on the door broke into their private little space, startling Sam and reminding him that there was a world outside. The rush of emotions faded a little, and he took a sudden deep breath.

Dean seemed just as reluctant to let anyone in as Sam was, but with a grunt he rolled off the bed, heading for the door.

John stood outside, shifting on his feet. He gave Sam a hesitant smile. "Hey, You're awake. How're you doin' kid? Feelin' okay?"

"Yeah, I feel fine."

"Sure? No headaches this time?" John asked, eyebrows raised.

Sam shook his head. "Nope. Everything seems okay. Dean said maybe I'm immune, after last time. And," he ducked his head, "Missouri, or rather the demon, did help me a bit with the psychic stuff."

John's gaze was aimed at the ground. "Yeah, about that. I…wanted to say sorry to you boys. I would never have sent you to her if I had any idea-"

"We know, dad." Dean interrupted, looking every bit as uncomfortable with the conversation as his father did. Sam hid a smile at how similar they looked. Not hard to guess where Dean got his serious-talk phobia, then.

"Well…I just wanted to make sure you boys were okay. And Stephen says he'll call you tomorrow morning, Sam." John nodded brusquely. "Margaret's taking off with the kids first thing tomorrow. She asked me to tell you not to…bother them before they go."

The implication behind John's careful words made Dean's mouth tighten, and Sam gathered that something had gone down between them while he was out of it. He couldn't say he was surprised; Margaret was like a lioness, fiercely protective of her children. But he'd have liked to say goodbye to Charlie. To tell him it wasn't his fault.

"Also, Caleb looked into those pills Missouri gave you." Sam looked up at that, his eyes darting between Dean and John.

"The pills?"

"Uh, yeah. I, uh, had them on me. I wanted to make sure they weren't…addictive, or anything." Dean said, scratching at the back of his neck.

"Well, good news is they're not. Caleb says they seem to be some kind of synthetic relaxant. Probably to make Sam more susceptible to psychic manipulation."

"Oh." Sam bit his lip, feeling stupid. He'd taken the damn pills without even knowing what they were. He hadn't even _asked_. God, he thought he'd learnt by now; a familiar face didn't mean anything when it came to trust. Trust had to be earned.

As if he read Sam's thoughts, John said, "Don't worry about it, kiddo. Missouri was…she was a good person. I'd have believed what she told me, too." He coughed gruffly. "Well, that was it. We'll be off early tomorrow; I'll drop you boys off with Stephen so you can take some downtime."

"What about you, dad?" Dean asked, his forehead creasing. He took a step toward his father, his arms reaching out for the man like he could physically hold him back and then hesitated, like he hadn't meant to do it. "You're-you're not gonna stay, too?"

"There's a hunt in Colorado. Werewolf, I think."

"Dad…"

Sam coughed and they both turned to look at him. "Uh…Sorry, I was just…there's a month 'til the next full moon. If you…if you wanted to stick around, Dean and I could come, help with it?"

Sam caught the spark of hope flaring in Dean's eyes before he hastily pulled a mask down over it. From the look on his face, John saw it too.

"I suppose." John coughed again, covering his mouth with his hand. "Anyway, I'll let you get back to…whatever you were doing. Seven sharp tomorrow." And with a manly pat to Dean's shoulder, John turned and left, closing the door behind him.

Dean turned back to Sam, trying to bite down on the grin pulling at one corner of his mouth. "He's really gonna stay. Huh."

* * *

Dean felt happy. Like, happy to such a degree it was almost unbearable.

He'd always thought that the expression 'bursting with happiness' was kind of stupid, but right then, standing over the bathroom sink, looking at a dead spider stuck to one of the black stains on the rim and listening to the alarming creaks the bed Sam was lying on in the next room made every time the kid moved a fraction, he really thought he might burst with happiness. The cynical part of himself said it was leftover adrenaline, the high of having survived buzzing through his veins. But Dean was damn well going to enjoy it anyway, even if it was followed by a crash of epic proportions.

The demon was dead, Sam was safe – Sam was _safe_, and he _loved _Dean – yeah, they still had obstacles to overcome, but for now…

For now, they were here.

Of course, that was the cue for the cynical voice to speak up again, a vicious hissing whisper that sent a thread of anger cutting through his elation.

_Gareth was out there, somewhere_. Gareth, who had touched the person Dean loved, so much he ached with it.

But Sam didn't want him to hunt Gareth down, he reminded himself. Sam asked him to promise.

Dean stared at his cell phone, the one John had pressed into his hand after helping to carry Sam into the motel room. Dean hadn't thought to ask where John had found it. Tim Rook's number was on the screen, and Dean's thumb hovered over the green call button.

"Dean? You okay?" Sam's voice was muffled through the door, but Dean could hear the slight shake to it. That crash was probably looming on the horizon for Sam, too.

"Yeah. Yeah, just a minute." Dean stared at the number for a second longer. He could do it, he could call Tim, find out where Gareth was. Stephen's place was a lot closer to Chicago than Lawrence. It would probably only be a days' drive to get there. And Sam would be safe with Stephen, John _and _Caleb watching over him.

"Dean."

Dean jumped, eyes flicking nervously over to the doorway. The kid was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest and eyebrows raised high enough to be hidden behind his mop of hair.

"What are you doing?" Sam looked pointedly at the phone in Dean's hand.

"Uh, I was just…" He rubbed at the back of his neck, waving the cell phone in the air. "Just…checking. To see if I had any messages."

"Oh."

"Yeah. New voicemails, you know. Exciting." Dean tried a smile that fell flat. God, he was ruining everything already, crushing their new-found happiness with clumsy lies. He'd at least hoped to last _one night_ without inadvertently pissing Sam off. He squeezed his eyes shut, letting out a heavy sigh. "Yeah, okay. Look, I…have something to tell you."

"Really? I'd never have guessed." Sam said, rolling his eyes. "I'm not gonna like this, am I?"

"Probably not." He swallowed, hard. "Uh. It's about…Gareth."

He peeked up at the kid, watching as Sam's face paled a little. "Oh. Uh, what about him?"

"I know you told me not to…do anything. But…I kinda did." It was hard to gauge Sam's reaction to his words; his face straightened into a blank mask immediately. But he'd started now, he had to finish. "I called someone my dad knows. Asked him to track Gareth down for me."

"And?"

Dean cocked his head. "And…what?"

"Where is he?"

"Sam…"

The kid's jaw clenched visibly. "Where, Dean?"

"It doesn't matter, okay? He's not anywhere near here, so it doesn't matter. You asked me not to do anything…and I'm not going to. I'm not going to break a promise to you, Sam. It means too much." As soon as Dean said it, he knew it was true. Even if it meant letting Gareth go. Hell, even if Sam asked him to cut off his own leg to prove himself, he'd do it.

Sam wasn't saying anything. The kid's gaze was set on the dirty mirror above the sink, a familiar set to his jaw that Dean knew from hours of bitch-fits that resolved themselves in shy _I'm sorry _smiles and tentative touches. Hopefully this would end up the same.

But Sam didn't start shouting. Instead, he swallowed hard, adam's apple jumping with the movement. When he met Dean's eyes, the anger he was expecting wasn't there. "I…have something to tell you, too. Uh, before, when…when I called my dad. I did it because," he sucked in a loud breath, "Because I remembered something. About Gareth."

When Sam didn't elaborate, Dean prompted him. "What did you remember?"

"When I was a kid," Sam's eyes met Dean's and then skittered away fast, "Gareth…I think he tried to…do what he tried in the alleyway. But my dad got there before he could and beat the crap out of him. I'm not sure, not a hundred per cent, anyway. So I called my dad. If it did happen, then he'd be the only one who'd be able to tell me."

Sam let out a shaky sigh that fluttered his bangs, peeking up at Dean like he was expecting him to start hitting things. And Dean wanted to, _god_, he wanted to. But that wasn't what Sam needed, not now.

The surprise on Sam's face when he was suddenly enveloped in a hug was almost worth the monumental effort of pushing away that searing anger. Then Sam started hugging Dean back, and he thought that anything would be worth it if he could keep this.

* * *

Sam lay on his back, eyes half-closed, letting himself enjoy the warm weight of Dean's arm wrapped protectively over his chest. The older man had fallen asleep a while ago.

A flicker of headlights passed through the room, lighting up the thin patterned curtains closed over the window. The light was accompanied by the rumble of a big rig, probably stopping over at the McDonald's across the highway. It made Sam smile, think _this is home_.

It also made him wonder what state the Impala might be in.

Dean had freaked the_ hell_ out when he realised he didn't have his car, and Sam had to duck into the bathroom to hide his laughter when the older man started openly praying to the Chevy gods that he'd be faithful, honest and true if only they'd give him his car back. It had taken waking up John with a phone call in the middle of the night, and then a sprint to John and Caleb's room in his underwear – because apparently Dean needed to 'see it in their eyes' before he'd believe it – to confirm that the Impala was okay. Apparently the car had been found abandoned a few miles from Missouri's house. It had been taken to an impound lot in town, and only Stephen's deft computer skills had saved it from the crusher. Dean had been clutching his chest when he heard _that_. But after being reassured – many, _many _times – that the car was safe and on its way to South Dakota, where John knew a guy who owned a salvage yard, Dean finally calmed down enough to go to bed. Sam didn't dare bring up his concerns about paint-scratches or worse, otherwise Dean would probably insist on going to get his beloved car right there and then, even if it meant he had to _walk _to South Dakota.

Despite his panic, the older man had passed out almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. His body still knew what it was supposed to be doing though; looking after Sam. Dean had an arm wrapped tight around his chest, a leg thrown over both of Sam's and his nose pressed into the hair behind Sam's ear. Every time Sam shifted, Dean's face would crease into a frown and he'd make a tiny whining sound in the back of his throat, both arms pulling Sam back securely against him.

It was comforting. Peaceful.

Of course, that was when Dean's phone started ringing.

Dean shot out of bed like he was under attack, groping for the knife he usually kept under his pillow. It wasn't there, mainly because Sam thought something like this might happen, and he didn't want to accidentally get stabbed on his way back from the bathroom.

"Wha…" Dean slurred, his mouth clearly still half-asleep.

Sam sat up on the bed, pointing to the table where the cell phone was doing a flashing-vibrating dance to 'Paint It Black'. Dean grunted something that may have been a thank you and slumped down in the hard wooden chair beside the table, rubbing a hand across his face as he flicked the phone open.

"…lo?"

There was a long pause as whoever was on the other end of the call spoke. Sam cocked his head, curious as Dean suddenly went still, his eyes stretched wide and awake.

"What the… Are you _sure_? Je-sus Christ."

"What?" Sam asked, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Dean met his eyes, held up one hand in a _wait a sec _gesture, his expression inscrutable as he listened to the person on the phone.

Apparently whatever was going down was big. Big enough to make Sam's heart rate quicken, anyway. He closed his eyes, leaning forward to press his head into his hands. Couldn't they catch a break? Just one night off, one night to be _them_, without anything else to worry about. One night for Sam to focus on the fact that Dean said he loved him, and Sam said it back, and they didn't have anything breaking down the door trying to kill them.

A loud _click _told Sam that Dean had hung up. With trepidation, he looked over, meeting the other man's eyes. "What was that about?"

Dean opened his mouth, working on words without sound for a second. Then he snapped it shut, sucking in a long breath before trying again. "Uh, Sam… I don't know how to tell you this, but…"

"But?" Sam crossed the room and fell to his knees in front of Dean with one swift movement. "What is it, Dean? You're scaring me."

Amazingly, the corner of Dean's mouth twitched in a brief smile. It faded just as fast, like it wasn't sure it should really be there. "That was my dad's friend, Tim Rook. The one I called…about Gareth. He was calling to tell me there was no need to go after him anymore."

Sam's heart thudded to a sudden halt, then picked up double-time. "What?"

Dean stroked a gentle hand through Sam's bangs. "Sam, Gareth's dead. He was _murdered_ last night."

It took a second for the words to sink in, and then Sam was reeling back on his heels. He lost his balance, flopping ungracefully onto his ass on the floor. He looked up at Dean with wide eyes. He knew he was probably wearing the expression of a lost little boy, and _god_, he felt like one.

Gareth was _dead_?

"How…" He could barely form the questions in his own mind, let alone force them into speech.

And then Dean's mouth curled into a sharp smile, feral as a wild dog. "The police are treating it as a torture-for-information deal, because he was so messed up when they found him. But this guy, Tim Rook, he got someone to check around after they'd gone. He found a photograph. A picture of a woman named Rose Miller, holding a baby."

It felt as if someone had pulled the bottom out of Sam's stomach. "My-my mom?"

"Your mom." Dean said with a short nod.

"Do-do you think…my dad…"

Dean nodded again, considering. "Maybe."

"Huh." Sam said stupidly.

Dean stood up, reaching a hand out to Sam. He took it in a daze, letting himself be pulled to his feet. He stumbled forward with the momentum, Dean's arms wrapping around his waist.

"Hey," Dean whispered, lips brushing his cheek softly, "you okay?"

Sam swallowed, dizzied and confused by the riot of colourful emotions swirling around his head like a kaleidoscope. They faded at the press of Dean's mouth to his, faded back into insignificance. Right now, the most important thing in the world was standing in front of him, holding him, kissing him.

As if he heard Sam's thoughts, Dean smiled, tapping their foreheads together gently. "Hey. Love you, kiddo."

Sam smiled back. "Love you, too."

Dean pulled him into another brief kiss that lingered, and Sam felt the sigh against his wet lips. Everything they'd been through, everything their lives had been about, and they were finally _done_.

Tomorrow would be a whole new life.


End file.
